Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 The following story is a purely fictional account.  Any relationship to any
real person living or dead is absolutely coincidental.  The narrative deals
with torture and slaughter of innocent human beings.  The author in no way
condones or promotes such acts.  This is the world of fantasy and fiction
where the hidden corners of the psyche may be explored.  The author
believes that exploring such subject matter in this realm keeps it from
ever needing to be explored, and much less fulfilled, in real life.  There
is violence in all of us.  Otherwise there would be no crime, no war, no
destruction.  We must acknowledge the beast inside of us if we are to tame
it.  To ignore it and repress it is to invoke its appearance in our midst.
   Sacred Work
   The first thing I notice is she's barefoot - a beautiful little barefoot
girl in black shorts and a striped t-shirt, on the front porch.  I open the
front door and smile.
   "Yes?" I say brightly.
   She smiles back.  In her cute little hand she grips a bunch of yellow
cardboard slips.
   "Want to buy a raffle ticket?" she asks.  The sound of her wispy little
voice travels through me.
   "What do I win?" I ask.  My eyes move down her small body and I know I'm
making her self conscious, her cheeks flush slightly.  She's been going
door to door and this is the last house on the end of the block.
   "Its - uhm - for school.  You get a - a basket of fruit."
   She's built real nice, a bit lanky but precociously well-proportioned
for a child her age with just the right amount of baby fat in all the right
places.  I can't believe I'm this lucky.
   "Why don't you come in," I tell her.  "You look like you've been working
hard today.  Want something to drink?"
   She does a little dance, a cute shift from foot to foot, her bike
discarded behind her on the concrete walkway.
   "Well -" she starts, biting her lower lip and looking up at me.  "My mom
-"
   "Your mom told you not to go in stranger's houses, right?"
   She smiles and nods politely.
   I lean in the doorway studying her.
   I've been working out and I'm wearing only a pair of gym shorts, a towel
draped around my neck, my body glossed with sweat.
   "Your mom's a smart lady.  There's lots of bad people around these
days."
   I look into her eyes, still smiling vacantly, a camouflage for what I'm
really feeling.  The morning wind riffles her shoulder-length black hair.
Strands of it blow enticingly across her cheeks and lips and she brushes it
back with her free hand.  She does that little dance again, with slightly
less energy.
   Its a beautiful clear cloudless day outside.  I want to reach out and
seize the little raffle-ticket girl by her thin little neck and choke the
life out of her.
   "What's your name?" I ask unexpectedly.
   "Amy Santos," she replies shyly.
   "I do want to buy a ticket from you, Amy, " I tell her softly.  "In
fact, I'll buy all your tickets.  Whatever you have left there.  How's
that?"
   "Really?" she says innocently surprised, her eyebrows arched.  She has
the cutest dark eyebrows.  She looks hispanic but also Asian, Filipino
maybe; her complexion is dark, exotic.  I wonder if her belly will be pale,
if there will be any pubic hair, after all she can't be more than ten or
eleven.  I know that I want to find out.  I know that I will find out - and
soon.
   "Why don't you wait and I'll get the money," I tell her.  "And you don't
have to come in.  I'll bring you a glass of water.  Would you like that?"
   "O.K.," she replies, the amazement hasn't left her face.  I've made her
day.  I'm buying all the tickets - and providing refreshment.  As I turn
from the doorway I wonder if little Amy has noticed the bulge in my shorts.
   I move through the house, the air-conditioned cooling my superheated
skin and go back out the sliding glass doors that exit into the back yard.
I was working out on the Soloflex by the pool when Amy rang the doorbell.
Its a nice Soloflex - probably brand new - and a nice pool.  Hell its a
nice fucking house.  I would buy one just like it - if I could afford it.
   There's a guest house beyond the pool.  I go into the bedroom where Cara
Lamont lies bound naked spreadeagled on her back, butchered, stabbed nearly
a hundred times and disemboweled on the king-size bed.  The walls of the
bedroom are blood spattered and pieces of woman-gut are strewn all over the
bedsheets and the expensive carpet.  Cara was a beautiful athletic redhead
until I got through with her last night.  She probably used her Soloflex
out there regularly to keep herself buff.  Now she's not much to look at.
Her lover, Pam Sloane, a sweet, big-titted blonde, hangs by her twisted
neck from the showerhead in the bathroom, her eyes cut out, a butcher knife
up her cunt, her tongue lolling out of her gaping mouth, a frozen
death-scream twisting her attractive face.  Pam's red-painted toes and
fingers are scattered across the Spanish tiles on the bathroom floor in
little blood puddles.
   Only hours ago Cara and Pam had been having themselves a little midnight
tryst, naked, entwined in lesbian passion, kissing and wrapped around each
other, buyoant in the green-lit water like two mermaids.  I'd planned to
find Cara alone in the house and never expected the double treat - two
cunts for the price of one.  In fact, I'd had no clue that Cara was a
goddamn dyke.  No inkling at all.  Not that it bothered me.  Not in the
least.  It was a nice treat - kinda like when you think you're broke and
you put on your jacket and find a twenty dollar bill in the pocket you'd
forgotten about.  I hadn't taken down a bitch in over three years and the
prospect of two females instead of one made my pulse race and the breath
catch in my throat.
   My victims never saw me sneak over the fence in the back.  My special
ops training has come in handy over the years.  They never saw me crouch
behind the bushes near the patio table to empty the drug powder into their
margaritas.  Cara and Pam never had the slightest idea about what was
coming to them - though they nevertheless fully deserved it - and they rose
out of the water gleaming and laughing to swig down their drinks while I
watched from behind the bushes, hating them and wanting them.
   When they passed out, Cara on one of the garden chairs and Pam on the
grass I dragged them into the guest house and tied them up.  Actually, I
tied Cara to the bed, and I hogtied Pam on top of the table I'd pulled in
from the dining room so she could watch me slice her lover up.  It took me
a ten minutes to revive the bitches - a shot of adrenalin will work wonders
to reverse the effects of the drug powder.  Pretty soon we had ourselves a
hell of a party going on.  I stripped naked, strapped the knife-sheath to
the leather belt around my waist and put on some loud music on the stereo,
some Marilyn Manson I'd brought with me, in my all-purpose travel' bag.
   In the living room the TV screen strobed soundless muted images at the
empty couch.
   I gagged both young women with duct tape but they still made a lot of
noise. I took my time raping both of them repeatedly, punching them and
beating them and kicking them - hard bone-cracking karate kicks - before
drawing the knife.
   Then the fun really started.  Pam was a real good audience for my
performance on Cara which, even for me, was way over the top.  But that was
to be expected since the scumbag slut was my first authenticated kill in
thirty six months.  And when Cara was finished Pam begged and pleaded with
me, to let her live, even through the duct tape.  I dragged her into the
bathroom.  I made her bend down and put her head in the toilet so I could
piss on her face before killing her.  I really enjoy pissing on a pleading
woman's face and in her hair - I'm not real sure why I needed to cut out
her eyes after I strangled her though or why I enjoyed fucking her dead
body under the shower spray - that's just the way it is sometimes.  Shit
just happens.  The force moves through me.
   Yeah, I'd had me a wild night and my plans were to leave right after
working out a bit on the Soloflex by the pool.  But there's to be no rest
now that little Amy Santos has shown up.  No rest for the weary.
   I take what's left of the powder I've used on Cara and Pam and drop it
into a glass of Evian I pour for my little raffle-ticket sales-girl who is
anxiously awaiting my return on the front porch.
   "Sorry I took so long," I tell her as I hand her the water-filled glass.
   "That's ok," she replies politely and I watch her drink, smiling. 
Always smiling.  Though my eyes continue to explore the unwitting child and
plan her destruction.
   "Oh," I say, pretending to be surprised.  "I forgot to get the money for
your raffle tickets.  I'll be right back."
   What an act I put on.
   She grins winningly and returns the empty glass.
   For the briefest moment I think of punching her in the mouth - that cute
little mouth that has probably never uttered a single mean word or curse -
that polite little mouth that shapes worshipful words to Jesus each night
before sleep. I will piss in that little mouth - probably before nightfall.
   "No problem," she says.  "Thank you for the water.  I'll wait."
   She sits on the front steps as I turn back into the cool shadows of Cara
Lamont's swanky living room - once-lovely now slashed-to-pieces, bitchfuck,
lesbian-cunt Cara Lamont who I'd been stalking for almost a month.  And now
there is to be a bonus - actually a second bonus, Pam Sloane, Cara's
lesbian lover, has been the first - in the shape of little Amy Santos
sitting on the front steps starting to get drowsy, watching the butterflies
circling the flowerbed in the front yard.  I watch from the living room
window as the little girl slowly tips over and slumps on her side inertly,
succumbs to the drug, then I go out to the porch and look around.  Beyond
the front gates the street is deserted.  I stride out on to the walkway and
pick up Amy's blue bike.  After I've leaned it up against the wall just
inside the doorway I go back out, take another look to make sure nobody is
around and I reach down and gather the unconscious child up in my arms.
   The raffle tickets spill from her little hand and out on the porch
steps.
   She's as light as a feather and I'm able to bend down and gather up the
tickets in one hand while holding on to her.  There's no need to leave
obvious evidence flying around out here.
   A little sliver of drool runs from her pretty parted lips as her cheek
bobs against my hard pectoral.
   Already my cock is wickedly hard and my heart is racing madly.
   I take Amy Santos into the house and close the front door behind me.
   Dropping the tickets on the living room sofa I carry her through a wide
hallway with expensive artwork and photographs on the wall to an area of
the house I have not yet explored.
   2.
   Cara Lamont's bedroom smells deeply feminine - a musky dizzying scent.
Rows of expensive dressy shoes and outfits are visible through the open
door of a walk-in closet
   An impressionist painting of soothing woods with a sparkling brook
running through them hangs over the bed.  A faint glow of light comes from
the half open bathroom door and the small window above the toilet.
   I've had to turn on the lamps on the night tables on either side of the
bed because this side of the house is in the shadows of two tall oaks and a
row of pine trees that sway quietly in the early afternoon breeze outside.
Even though it is a bright and sunny day, this room with the shades drawn
is dark - too dark - and I need to see.  I need desperately to see, to
drink with my eyes, to take clear mental pictures that will never fade.
   I've pulled off my gym shorts and I stand naked on the soft plush carpet
by the bed where I've laid the child out.  She's unconscious, on her back,
her legs draped over the side of the bed, arms at her sides.
   I've pulled her little black shorts down to her ankles along with her
red multi-colored-star-studded cotton panties.
   Just as I'd thought.  Her belly is pale, pale creamy flesh bounded by
the darker.  A triangular lighter patch in the shape of a bathing suit. 
Skin that the beach-side sun has not and never will blemish.
   I won't be waking Amy just yet.
   I want to enjoy her just as she is - fully.
   She is quintessentially beautiful lying there like that - inert -
slow-breathing in drug-induced, slack-mouthed, sleep - anaesthesized - her
shorts and panties pulled immodestly and carelessly down to her slender
lanky ankles - her face peaceful, lips parted and slightly pouting.
   What would her mommy say?
   For a few moments I just stand there admiring her and stroking myself
slowly letting the excitement build in me in gradual and disciplined
increments.
   I reach down and pull Amy's shorts and panties completely off her and
toss them aside then I tug her striped t-shirt up over her head, needing to
lift her arms up so that I can pull it off her.  In her K-Mart clothes
she'd looked intrusive in the opulent room, tossed across Cara Lamont's
luxurious bed.  Now, her innocent though impudent nudity is far more
appropriate and charming.  Now, both of us are naked.
   She is warm and limp and I stand over her watching the breath rise and
fall in her chest, filling out her little rib cage.  In and out.  Up and
down.  My mouth waters with predatorial appetite.
   I put my hand on her small belly to feel it move, pressing down
slightly, sensing her heartbeat through my fingertips dimpled in her soft
skin, palpating the internal organs underneath the flesh, taking stock of
what is now my property.
   Oh dear yes, what would Mommy Santos say?
   I've never had a child of my own - nor wanted one.  The feelings that a
child like Amy provoke in me are far from parental and protective.
   I'm overcome by how tiny she is, slightly over four feet tall.  At
six-five I am a giant in comparison and the size difference between me and
my victim makes the blood pump into my prick and I have to stroke myself
slowly, returning the hand from her belly to my own needful flesh,
breathing hard, my eyes roving over her nakedness with feverish intent.
   Slowly I slide down to my knees on the plushly carpeted floor next to
the bed before her.  I cup her small face in my hands and lean down to kiss
her right on her open mouth.  I pause to lick her lips and her cheeks
leaving them glistening wetly and reflecting the pale yellow glow of
lamplight.
   "I'm going to kill you," I whisper reverently, excited by the sound of
my voice in the silent room, my softly spoken threat - perhaps not a threat
really, more of a promise.
   Outside the window the pines bend to a gently moving breeze.
   I kiss Amy again, harder, pushing my tongue past her lips, into her
sleeping mouth, gripping her tiny ears in my fingers, between thumb and
forefinger on each side, frail shells of skin so soft and vulnerable.  I
lick her earlobes and push the tip of my tongue into the warm auditory
canals, first one side - turning her face, kissing her on the lips again -
then the other.
   I want to bite but I hold back.  That will come later.  I need to take
my time. This moment now - timeless in this sweet smelling room - a dead
woman's room - pretty sensual lesbian woman butchered for my sexual
pleasure - grossly and horribly murdered - this special place now hidden
and secret - a secret place where I can do as I please with my sleeping
child.  I hear myself moan softly with the memory of my knife slicing
Cara's strong body open and my hands move up and down little Amy's warm
unconscious body, down her small shapely legs to her cute little feet as my
lips cup hers and my teeth graze her chin.  I trace the contours of her
closed eyelids with my tongue - those lovely eyebrows, now inexpressive,
soft against my nose like snowflakes.
   I am a cunt killer.
   The thought sparks through me like electricity.
   This is my deepest nature.
   A cunt killer and a child killer.
   I'm doing what I've been born to do - what others find evil and
repugnant - this sacred work.
   "...going to kill you," I whisper again, my voice harder, edgier.
   I squeeze her small pliant feet in my hands enjoying the way the small
bones beneath the warm flesh move around under my fingers.  Moaning
hungrily I lick all the way down her chest, past the small brown nipples on
her as yet undeveloped titties, down the smooth heat of her flat belly
dipping my tongue into her belly button to taste a faint trace of sweat.  I
pause to look down at her clean hairless pubis, at the slitted virgin
entrance of my little dark princess.
   She smells of baby powder and Johnson's shampoo.
   "Mmmmm," I voice, feeling my lips twisting upward in a reflexive smile.
   This miniature pussy's mine for the taking.
   All fucking mine - what incredible luck.  My planned attack on Cara
Lamont has evolved into a delicious threesome with this perfect little doe
as the climax.
   The house is quiet.  I don't want music on for this kill.  This one will
be long and peaceful.  Intimate.
   Last night was an orgy, corrupt, banal.
   This one will be like a prayer.
   I take my sleeping child's hands in mine, squeeze them gently.
   Ever so gently I kiss Amy's little cuntmound, exhale my pent up breath
upon it, intake its pungency.  The skin is as smooth and perfect as
sculpted marble.  I lift her legs and spread them, pause to study the pink
slit, slick like the inside of an oyster - Amy Santos' virgin cherry. 
Gently I press my stubbly chin against it, into it, then tilt my head down
to engulf the whole of her girl-sex in my open mouth.  Gradually I thrust
the tip of my tongue against her parted pussylips on either side and then
up and down the middle of the small slit, and then into the moist opening
at the center - so small - its diameter about that of a dime - and I feel
my cock arrive at full erection, pulsing for action, knowing I will thrust
deep into this little piglet bitch - wanting just then to kill her with my
big club of flesh - to pound it into her inch by inch and hear her scream -
wanting to ram the impossible size of my manhood deep into the unconscious
spic bunny - my breath fast and hissing - knowing that I can if I wish but
holding on to the power of the knowing, resisting the act - no need to rush
- not now - I need to draw it out, to make it last, each perfect eternal
moment of this sacred child rape - as long as possible...  I turn my head
from left to right to smear my cheeks against Amy's baby cunt and then,
still holding each of her legs by her feet I lick all the way down her
thighs and calves to her heels.  I lick and nibble at the small hard knobs,
at the wrinkled flesh of the achilles heel, at the ankle bone, marveling to
see her pulsing vein under the pale olive skin, her heart beating gently
but firmly, a soft breathy moan from her as she stirs.
   My captured angel has been running all around the neighborhood today
with her raffle tickets and the soles of her tiny feet are speckled with
bits of dirt and grass which stick to them moistly - I wipe them against my
forehead and cheeks gripping her by her ankles.  I smear my tongue against
the crinkly furrowed flesh, my mouth wide and drooling as I look up her
leg, past her little pussy and to her sleeping face, licking and licking,
drooling, moaning hungrily.
   "....kill you," I mutter softly, repetitively, the words muffled as my
mouth presses against her footflesh.  " -kill you - kill - kill -" I need
to tell her this, even if she does not hear - my intention - this
threat-promise - the purpose of my actions, clear and unequivocal.
   Sacred.
   Little slut.
   I suck her little toes one by one, lick between them, nibble on the hard
nails of her big toes and lick into the crevices of the nails.  She has
perfectly shaped little feet.  They are like the feet of the cherub angels
in old Victorian paintings - Cupid drawing his bow, his cute little
tootsies arched as he floats overhead.  I'm tempted to bite each chubby toe
off, one by one, crush the morsels of human flesh and bone in my mouth and
devour them - but I control my impulses - keep them in check - there will
be plenty of time for this cannibalistic treat later - when the day has run
out and spent itself - I want to make this leisurely rape last as long as
possible - an eternity - as the digital clock on the night table slides
past long slow minutes of maddening pleasure.
   Coming up into a crouch I push her feet against my raging prick, rub her
toes up and down the nine inch length of my shaft gasping with delight,
slowly blessing the heat of my desire with her cool skin, rubbing my
exposed cockhead up and down the soles, leaving trails of slimy pre-cum on
them.  As I do that I kiss her knees and her thighs.  I kiss her small
hands and suck on her perfectly shaped fingers, nibbling on each joint, and
gradually, irresistibly, return my attentions to her little pink cunt, now
thrusting my tongue as far as I can into her warm girlhole grunting with
desire.
   Hungry, ravished, I tongue deep into my captured angel.
   As deep as possible.
   What do I want to find inside her?  What compelling mystery?  What
urgent answer to the questions of existence?  The layers of whatever I am
are peeled away one by one as always during these demonic acts - layers of
false civility and politeness - all layers of pretense - gradually I am
becoming what is intrinsic and significant, I am returning to the masculine
core, savage and beastly, grunting and lustful.  Is this what I am,
finally? A man-demon crouched over an innocent child, voracious?  Is this
masterful or pitiful?  Perfect or flawed?  Am I the Alpha and Omega of
evolution spinning back in upon itself - all the technological and
philosophical advances meaning nothing now that the throbbing drums of the
crazed savage beat against my brain like storm waves?  Once I would have
found this demented and awful - reprehensible - sinful - ghastly.  But that
was a long time ago and even then I instinctively responded to the sight of
a bitch in ropes and chains - gray pictures in bondage porn mags bought in
furtive visits by a shy young man to the gaudy neon-lit adult bookstores.
Maybe I have always been this and only this and that is why I rejoice so
deeply each time and need to see the blood flow and need to see the hurt
and the pain in them...Deeper - I thrust deeper with my tongue into the
core of poor Amy Santos searching perhaps for sustenance, for meaning -
inert hapless, luckless child, who does not deserve this, who did not ask
for it.  Victim.  Here for me.  Gift.  Added bonus.  Little bitch twat. 
Gonna kill your little ass.  Deeper and deeper.
   Feed me with your suffering you will.
   Fuck yeah - what exactly would Mommy say?
   She is not the first child.  Not by a long shot.  There have been six of
them in the last ten years.  Six little babes and twelve, counting Cara and
Pam - twelve young women of childbearing age and cum-fetching countenance
and physique.  My own special ops.  My own little war against cunt and
innocence.  Deeper I thrust my eager tongue, rub my enraged cock on your
feet, you little fuck-angel - Amy Santos - like the others who will not be
returned to the world of the living - who will suffer and bleed and scream
and die for my pleasure.  I have cut a quantum gash right out of the social
fabric leaving behind grieving husbands and fathers and boyfriends, mothers
and brothers and sisters and cousins and friends, all victims as well,
their lives horribly derailed - some of whom I've watched sobbing on
televised interviews, or in magazines, surprised by the sudden hardness in
my crotch, unexpected but delicious response to the bottomless grief I've
caused and the irreperable harm I've done.
   I would like to say I am a victim myself, as perfect as little Amy, and
all the others, a victim of the powerful megacorporate establishment that
sent me off on dirty little missions to South America and Africa and the
Middle East, missions no one ever read about in newspapers or saw on CNN.
But by the time I got into the Rangers I had already offed three females.
Two college girls and a luckless barfly, a thirty-something cunt that was
unfortunate enough to swagger drunkenly in my direction while I was home
from overseas duty in Atlanta.  The violence of war made me worse, made me
regret nothing, made me empty inside and numb - but it probably amplified
and developed what was already there.  Still, it added nothing new really.
Whatever I am I've brought with me, right from the get-go.
   I have discovered nirvana, enlightenment - although many would say it is
a false enlightenment - a deception - Christians would say that Satan has
overtaken me - in a flailing lash, in tight merciless ropes and gagged lips
and mewling throats - in the thrusting sharpness of metal - axe and blade -
Rambo-knife and kitchen knife - ice pick and crowbar - In the act of
bludgeoning and battering against a defenseless female body I find deepest
joy and inexplicable beauty, transformed immediately, transported by the
spilling of her blood - of her warm life - deep into the source of the
river of myself where I am omniscient and all powerful - like God himself -
judge jury and executioner - fully and unswervingly in control.
   And the taste - the taste of little Amy's cunt - sweet and sour - sharp
and tender - all at the same time - elemental.
   The taste of child-cunt is the taste of the universe, like the smell of
oncoming rain on a summer day.
   Now energized to a new level I swing little Amy over on her belly.  I
need to see her from this new perspective, arms limp, palms upturned.  I
enjoy seeing my victims from behind when for whatever reason they are not
aware of me and cannot look back.  The feeling of power rages in me then.
   My little raffle-ticket girl has the most perfectly round little butt
and the quilt on the bed has left small wrinkled criss-crossing lines
traced across her back.  In repose, her head is turned to one side, cheek
pressed into the quilt, face hidden under her tangled black mane.  I stand
over her jerking off marveling at the gentle curves and anatomical
perfection of this little girl's body.  My heart is pounding crazily.  I
have thoughts of carefully slicing her open - of skinning her alive - of
scalping that silky head of jet black hair off her head.
   Again she moans softly and stirs.
   The drug is wearing off.
   I bite my lip in anticipation of what is to come.
   Again I slide down to my knees, now continuing to stroke my cock with
hard languid pumping motions.  I push my open mouth against Amy's little
asscrack and begin to lick up and down on it.  I occasionally kiss the cool
half-moons of her buttocks and the base of her spine.  She is stirring more
and more and muttering as I now push my eager tonguemeat against her salty
little asshole.  I lick my thumb and push it slowly into her, violating her
rectal opening.  I lick my thumb as I push it in and out, jerking myself
off with the other hand.  Well lubricated with spit my thumb fucks little
Amy up the ass and I watch her slowly begin to awake, her little hands
opening and closing and then reaching back to touch my hand and my face as
I begin to bite her asscheeks.
   "Wh-what - uhh - whh -" she groans, lifting her head off the bed to peer
down at me over her shoulder, eyes groggy and lost behind a curtain of
black hair-strands.
   I bite her hard now and jam my finger deep into her ass, my eyes glaring
into hers.
   "Owwww!" she says.  Her hands push against my head and she tries to
squirm away.
   I hold her easily in place and sink my teeth hard and deep into her
upper thigh.
   "Owwww!  Noo!"
   Her hands flail at me.  I let go of my needful erection to seize her
arms and hold them behind her, gripping both her wrists in my right hand,
pushing her down against the bed while I work my thumb cruelly in and out
of her violated cornhole and again, still glaring up at her with savage
grinning glee I fill my mouth with sweet assmeat and sink my teeth into
her.
   She screams piercingly, her legs kicking.
   I grab her by her hair and move up on to the bed kneeling over her
twisting her face up to mine, my thumb jammed deep in her asshole.
   "Shut up, bitch," I snarl, enjoying the way her pretty brown eyes go way
wide with terror.  "Shut the fuck up or I'll smash your fucking face in -
you hear me?"
   "Please, mister, please!" she sobs.
   "Listen to me, slut.  If you scream like that again I'll break your
neck!"
   To emphasize the point I thrust my thumb as far as it will go up her
little asshole.
   Her eyes shut tightly and her pretty brows knit together.  Pain
disfigures - or I guess you could say transfigures - her features.  My
little Victorian angel has taken a nasty fall now and I'm smiling and she's
sobbing softly, her lips sagging downward and trembling as I corkscrew my
thumb in her supertight butthole, opening it up for bigger things,
preparing the way you might say.
   And though it is difficult for her she remains obedient to me and does
not shriek again.
   "I'm gonna fuck you up the ass, Amy," I tell her bluntly.  "So open up.
Spread your legs out on the bed honey-child and take God's will."
   "Oh nooo -" she whimpers.  "Pleeease, mister - don't - don't -"
   "Shut the fuck up, Amy.  You'll shut the fuck up and you'll take what's
coming to you or so help me I'll break every fucking bone in your little
body right now.  Every last little bone."
   I yank on her hair hard with each brutal word:
   "Do - you - understand!?"
   She nods, sobbing, whimpering.
   Chances are I might just break every bone in her little body anyway, no
matter what the fuck she does but for now I can use the full power of the
threat.
   Poor little cunt.  She has no fucking clue what is going on.  One minute
she's riding her little bike from house to house selling raffle tickets and
now she's in someone's bedroom with a big mean-voiced naked man snarling at
her and shoving his finger up her ass and she has no idea how she got
there. She's completely disoriented.  And that's the way I like it.  The
way I've always liked it.
   Total ambush.  Total mindrape.
   Cara and Pam had woken with that same panic-stricken lost look in their
faces to the pounding beat of Marilyn Manson last night and to the presence
of an all-powerful, wild-eyed, avenging predator, full of psychotic
mysoginistic rage ready to claim my just rewards on this planet - ready to
get some of what's rightfully mine.  Locked and loaded.  Cunt-killer
extraordinaire.
   I yank little Amy back by her hair as I stand behind her forcing her to
kneel on the bed and present her perfect little asshole to me framed by her
pretty footsoles.
   Present - hut!
   Still gripping her mane tightly I position my throbbing erection between
her buttcheeks which glisten from my spittle and on which the crescent
shaped bitemarks I've left on her plain evidence of my unleashed violence.
   "Don't fuckin' move," I growl as I push the tip of my prick against the
tiny pink rosebud of her anus.  "Don't you fuckin' move, you stinking
little worm."
   I thrust forward slowly and hold her steady by her head.
   She makes a whining sound in her throat and goes limp as the swollen
knob of my penis pushes inward.  At its widest circumference my shaft is
easily four times the diameter of her sphincter.  This is rape by the full
definition of the word. Its going to take some hard work to get all the way
inside her but I'm determined to give it my all.  I see her little hands
grip the quilt and the whining in her throat becomes an intermittent
gagging and gasping.  I let go of her hair to grip her little hips.
   Suddenly, the little bitch pushes away from me and across to the
opposite side of the bed.  She leaps off the mattress, grabs the wireless
phone that is on the night table and runs into the bathroom slamming the
door shut and locking it.
   I smile.  Little Amy's got spunk.  Spunk and ingenuity.
   I'm going to enjoy this far more than I'd thought at first.
   Her voice is muffled behind the bathroom door:
   "Hello?  - Hello?"
   I hear the pointless beeping of the phone as she dials over and over.
   "Hello?  - Hello?" Her little voice desperate.
   Since I didn't bring my tool bag into the bedroom - its still out in the
guest house - I'm going to have to improvise a little.
   I take a lamp off one of the night tables and rip the electrical cord
from the wall.
   Yanking it free of the lamp gives me a good five foot length of cable.
   I move toward the bathroom.
   "The phone's not gonna work, Amy," I tell her through the closed door.
   I hear her whimper.  Again a series of three short beeps.
   Silence.
   Then faintly whispered: " - he-llo?"
   "I cut all the phone lines last night, Amy.  You hear me?  Now come out
of there and take what's coming to you.  You know I can break down this
door and I won't think twice about it.  But I want to give you a chance to
come out on your own."
   "Pleease -"
   The sound of her small pleading voice coming from behind the door makes
my balls ache and my cock boom powerfully.
   "Come on out now, Amy.  Or I'll come in and get you and it won't be
nice."
   "Pleease, mister - don't hurt me anymore - don't hurt me - I'll be good
- I'll be a good girl."
   "I know you're a good girl, Amy and that's why you need to open this
door and come out here right now.  You need to show me what a good little
girl you really are - before I get really angry with you."
   "Pleease -"
   "I'm losing my patience, Amy.  You don't want me to lose my patience."
   After a few silent moments I hear her move towards the door.
   She is standing there with her hand on the knob, sobbing softly.
   Come and get it sweetie-pie, I think to myself.  My cock is pulsing and
huge.  It needs something to pound into.  And that something is you - Amy-
fucking- Santos.
   The lock clicks as she opens the door slowly.
   I step back and stand over her.
   She is crying softly and looking right at my pulsing erection which is
just about level with her pretty little Filipino face.
   Her eyes slowly trail up to mine.
   "Its so - big -"
   There is fear and awe in the glistening eyes.  I know she's never seen a
man's penis, much less one as flagrantly aroused and developed as mine.  It
will be her first and her last.  Alpha and Omega.  I will be her teacher.
At my hands all the injustice and cruelty of the universe will be brought
home to her.
   "Its big for you, Amy," I tell her softly.  "Just for you.  You make it
that way."
   "Me?" she asks innocently.
   A single tear runs down her cheek.
   In that moment, more than ever I hate her and want her dead.  I want to
hear and see and taste her suffering and her blood.  Every destructive
instinct in me has been triggered.
   I want to waste her.
   I go down on one knee in front of her.
   "Turn around," I tell her.  She sees the electrical cord in my hand.
   "What are you doing?" she asks.
   "I said turn around." My voice is dull and heartless.
   She obeys it reticently, wordlessly.
   I pull her hands behind her and loop the electrical wire around her
wrists, three turns horizontally and three vertically, until the wire
gouges into her delicate skin.
   "Owww!  That hurts!" she protests.
   "Yes, it does," I concur.  I know it is just the beginning of the pain I
will inflict on you, pig.  Just a little taste.
   I turn her back around and walk her toward the bed.
   "Now get up on there like a good girl, Amy, just like before - on your
knees with your ass up in the air for me."
   Little pig.
   "Pleeease -" she whines looking up at me, knowing what's coming, backing
away from me - She knows what it feels like now - that monster thing
pushing up into her little behind.
   Viciously I slap her little face knocking her off her feet and to the
carpet.
   She lies there bawling.
   "Get up, Amy.  Get up now and get on that fucking bed."
   I don't even raise my voice.  There's no need to.  The sibilant meanness
in it is enough to get the point across.
   "Nooo - nooo -"
   I yank her up by her hair, she tries to pull away.  I slap her again
sending her sprawling back against the dresser and to her knees, her face
flushed crimson.
   "Up on that bed.  Now."
   Its pretty fucking clear that I mean business.
   Crying fitfully, struggling to her feet with difficulty because of her
bound hands, she finally obeys taking small mincing steps toward Cara
Lamont's bed, crawling up on to the quilt, sobbing with each move as she
positions herself for me.
   I go to the night table from where my fleeing angel took the wireless
phone and I seize the base ripping out the long thin cord that leads to the
wall.  The phone, which Amy left on the bathroom counter beeps, its sensor
shrilly trilling the warning that a connection is no longer possible.  I'd
already disabled the main box outside before my attack on Cara and Pam last
night so this final electronic warning is an amusing diversion which makes
Amy raise her head from the bed and look around.
   She sees me coming around the bed, silouhetted against the pale daylight
coming through the bathroom door and up behind her, the phone cable
dangling from my hand.
   "Pleeease -" she whimpers endearingly.  " - nooooo -"
   I fold the six foot long phone cable up into a two foot, three loop
flogger as I put my cock up against the child's asscrack, pushing the
sensitive red prickhead up against her bunghole.
   "Now -" I tell her.  "We're gonna do this again, Amy Santos.  And this
time you won't run away - right?"
   She's sobbing pathetically.
   "Right?" I query sharply.
   "No -" she blurbs against the quilt.  " - won't run away - I'll be good
- be g-good - good girl -"
   I seize her by the hip with one hand.
   "That's right, bitch.  You're gonna be a good girl.  Nice and still for
me... ahhh - open your legs up a little more, Amy - yeahh - good - here it
is - here it is comin' up your tight little ass you little fuckkk -"
   This time I thrust forward hard, putting a half inch of cock meat up
into her incredibly tight aperture, buggering the little bitch unmercifully
and as she starts to cry I raise the telephone cord high above my head and
bring it crashing across the helplessly bound child.
   3.
   I beat her and I fuck her and I take from her, stupid bawling, screaming
little slut.
   She's mine now.
   She's food on my plate.
   The swishing whistle of the telephone wire is loud in the room.  The
dull thud as it snaps against her flesh and her lively throaty cries only
make me thrust myself harder into her.  Her pain feeds me, nourishes the
mindless savage, more layers of control peeled away.  I am who am. 
Destroyer of worlds.
   Down there, before me on the bed the writhing child's body is streaked
with thin red welts, loop shaped where the improvised cord-flogger has left
its erratic marks across her back, between her bound limbs on the
shoulderblades, and on her arms, forearms and shoulders as well, even on
the tender palms of her hands.  My breath is coming fast now.  I hear
myself growl and grunt.  There is no need for words.  I have traded my
humanity for whatever this enthusiastic beastliness is underneath.  Amy
Santos' hands are clenched together at the back of her waist, pale from
lack of blood, strangled by the binding cord, welted, and my cock, is
impaled halfway up her gouged shithole.  She's filled with me, physically
and spiritually.
   I strike with predictable rhythm, not too slow and not too fast, giving
her scarce seconds between each sharp cut of the wire and she sobs and
pleads against the quilt and I smile and lodge myself deeper.  Already her
asshole bleeds slightly and she spreads her knees further apart on the bed
to try to accomodate the crude sodomy.
   With a fierce snarl I grip the child tightly by her hips and ram another
quarter of an inch deeper.  She wails, wide-mouthed and then squeals as the
whipping cord bites the side her thigh.
   "Stay right there," I command.  "Don't fucking move."
   I slide my cock suddenly out of her and step back.
   I need to whip what I am fucking.
   Whp!  Whp!  Whp!  Three quick left-right swipes of the telephone cord
across my captive angel's firm little buttcheeks.  Two horizontal, the last
vertical into the space between her buttocks, right into her violated
rectal pout.
   "A-Aaaoooowwww!"
   Her cry of pain, shrill and desperate almost makes me cum.  I stroke
myself for a couple of seconds and again:
   Whp!  Whp!  Whp!  Whp!  Whp!
   Back and forth, up and down, across that beautiful little buns making
Amy dance a terse little dance of pain on the bed but remain obediently on
spread knees, crying sobbing, screaming, coughing, gasping for air.
   "You stay there, pigg," I growl.  "Just stay RIGHT there."
   Whp!  Whp!  WHPP!  WHPP!  WHPP!  WHPP!  WHPP!  WHPPP!
   "Aiii!  iii-eeee - aaiihhh!  Awh -uh- uh - uh -uhhh!  Nooooo!"
   The eight stroke spree makes her bounce, twist.  Her arms reach out on
the quilt but finally she slides forward and twists into a fetal position
quivering visibly to the pain and squirming instinctively away to the
opposite side of the bed.
   I grab her by her ankle to stop her.
   "Back up on your knees," I tell her.
   "Noo more - pleeease - no more -"
   "Get back up on your knees, bitch.  Now."
   Sobbing plaintively she does as she is told.
   Dark red streaks, some nearly purple marr my baby angel's asscheeks and
the back of her thighs - nasty marks that I know must burn and sting -
sharp lines of blunt instrument trauma - just one set of wounds among many
I will leave on Amy Santos that will be studied by the city coroner later
and by the experts from the FBI crime lab.  A small drop of blood drips
from the intersection point of three cord-strokes just above her rectum. 
But I need more.  Lots more.  And I'm determined to get it.  To take my
fill of her.
   "Open your legs wider," I tell her when she calms down a bit.  Patiently
I wait for her obedience.  "Stick your ass up in the air for
me...higher...higher. Good girl.  I'm gonna whip you again, Amy."
   "Noooo -"
   "Yes.  I am.  And this time I want you to beg me for it."
   "Wh-why?  Why do you want t-to hurt me?"
   Her voice is muffled slightly because, since her arms are bound behind
her, she's unable to lift her face from the quilt which has bunched up
around her head.
   "What grade are you in?" I ask returning her question with another.
   I know I've confused her because she says nothing.  Instead she whimpers
and squirms in anticipation of the slashing cord which she knows will soon
inflict fiery pain across her tender bottom and thighs.
   " - at school, Amy - What grade are you in at school?"
   "F-fourth - fourth grade -"
   I'm jerking off slowly - also anticipating what is inevitable.  The
little girl's breathy voice is a potent aphrodisiac.  I need to make her
talk, to hear her plead - I need to hear the frailty, the helplessness - to
understand fully just what it is that I'm destroying - to remember.  My
cock, graced with her blood and bits of her faeces demands it.
   "Fourth grade - well, then you're too young to know why I want to hurt
you but let's just say I do it because I really enjoy it."
   "But - but I didn't do - I d-didn't do any-anything bad."
   "No, Amy.  The only thing you did was that you happened to be in the
wrong place at the wrong time - "
   I shake the phone cord loose, unfurl a third of the looped wire so that
it is now four feet long and I step back a bit further.
   " - That's all - Nothing more to it."
   "It hurts so bad, mister," she whimpers.
   "I know it does, Amy - I'm glad that it does - Its going to hurt worse
now.  I want you to beg me for more."
   "Noooo."
   "Beg for it, Amy.  Say: Whip me, Sir.  As hard as you can.  Say it."
   Silence.  Whimpering.
   "Say it, Amy.  I'm waiting.  Don't make me wait too long."
   Silence.  Then:
   "Wh-whip m-me, Sir...As - as h-hard as you can."
   "Good girl."
   It reminds me of sudden wind through pine needles, a long sharp whooosh
ending in a dull thud across Amy's upper thighs, swinging around her hips
to nip at her belly.  She keens shrilly, face flushed darkly, and I give
her one across her back.  Three more across her pretty ass.  One across her
footsoles that sends her into a fitful squealing, defeats her position as
she crumbles into a fetal twist.
   "Up on your knees, bitch!" I shout.
   She obeys and seconds later I'm giving her more.
   Fifteen strokes through which she somehow manages to stay in the
position I've put her in the last one aimed right at her exposed pussy as
per instructions: as hard as I can -
   She howls shrilly and rolls on to her back, rolls again off the bed with
a thump, crying fitfully.
   "Get back up there," I intone harshly.  "Get the FUCK back up there and
take what's coming to you!"
   Incredibly she does, though I can see it costs her dearly to do so.
   Obedient little fuck.
   Again I step up behind her and put my cock to her whipped butt.  This
time I sink almost three quarters of the full nine inches up her asshole,
gripping her hip tightly, folding the cord back up to a shorter more
manageable length so that I can continue flogging my baby kitten while I
fuck her.  After some twenty plus strokes, cruelly and knowingly delivered
I wrap the phone cord around her skinny neck, four quick loops and yank her
up on to a kneeling position, my prick popping out of her as I yank her
head back to my chest by the strangling wire.  I choke her for a good three
minutes before she starts to go faint, her hair tickling my sweaty belly
and my prick, her eyes looking back up at me - those hazel child eyes so
full of agony - mouth wide and gasping.  As she starts to pass out, I let
her fall forward, pushing my cock back up her punished bunghole, unwrapping
the phone cord to whip her again - whp!  whp!  whp!  across her back and
shoulders.  whp!  whp!  whp!  - reviving her with slashing pain - winding
the cord again around her neck to pull her back up against me, choking my
little piglet, leaving crimson indentations on her neck.  further clues
that will allow investigators to gauge the inhuman extent of her torture.
   They will know I played choking games with her.
   They will know I whipped her with the same cord I strangled her with.
   They will recoil from the horror I show them.
   Sociopathic.  They will say.
   Criminally insane.
   Pathological.
   But no terminology will adequately define the scandalous insult, the
lack of conscience, the terminal viciousness that will be wreaked upon Amy
Santos.
   Again I let her fall forward on to Cara Lamont's bed.  Again I fuck her
and whip her.  The minutes tick by.  The hours.
   But Amy Santos is not even known to be missing yet.
   No one is even looking for her.
   Again I choke her.
   "You're here for me, Amy," I tell her, whispering it in her ear as I
hold her against me by the strangling cord.  " - for me..."
   Then, when she looks back up at me, I spit on her flushed gagging wide-
mouthed, wide-eyed face.
   I yank her off the bed and let her dangle from the choking cord, her
feet kicking against my legs.
   She's not heavy enough to be strangled by her own weight and I take my
time to study her suffering - she squirms in mid air like a kitten seized
by the scruff of the neck, her eyes pleading with mine, her cheeks dark
red. Just before she goes out from lack of oxygen I let her fall to the
floor at my feet.
   She lies there crumpled, sobbing softly, the phone cord still wound
tight around her throat.
   Outside, the world has begun to fade into afternoon.
   In this room night has already arrived.
   4.
   Sometimes my voice sounds eerie to me, like a stranger's.  I hear it now
calm, relaxed, emotionless:
   "Tell me you love me."
   Amy Santos' eyes are lost, her lips parted.
   I lie on Cara Lamont's bed, my head propped up on three pillows so that
I can watch, my legs spread wide, my cock upstanding like a rocket on the
launch pad.  Amy kneels between my legs on the rumpled quilt, hands still
bound behind her, the telephone cord still wrapped around her throat. 
She's leaning slightly forward and I can feel her breath on the tip of my
shit-smeared cock.  Her back, sides, shoulders, asscheeks and thighs are
streaked with red and dark-purple bruise-welts.
   "Did you hear me?  I said: tell me you love me."
   I have told her she will have to lick my prick clean and suck upon it
like a sweet Halloween lollypop and that she will have to lick my balls and
later my asshole.
   But before she does any of it she must declare her affection for me. 
This is a little game I play with some of my victims - at least with the
special ones.  It makes the sense of mastery so much more complete, so much
more destructive to them, to have to proclaim what must certainly be the
emotion furthest from their mind.
   But are love and terror really so distant?  Isn't all love terrifying in
its imperfection, in the knowledge that at any time the object of our
intense affection - a wife, a child, a parent, a friend - can be erased
senselessly and completely?  Isn't violent lust, fueled by the impermanent
moment, with no designs on the impossibility of eternity, a much truer, a
much more realistic human motivation?  Maybe in these heightened moments of
caustic violence against another I'm reaching out for some kind of eternal
foothold from my victims, some proclamation that at once impales and
transcends the moment, quantifies and validates what is on the surface
nothing more than a desperate need for an intense orgasm.
   "I need you to tell me you love me, Amy - understand?  Say it.  Say it
nice and clear for me.  Nice and loud, baby.  Come on."
   Still she stares at me.  Silent.  Haunted.
   I sit up, take her by her one shoulder to prop her up and I slap her
face hard.
   "Tell me."
   I slap her again harder.
   If she doesn't say something soon I will punch her stupid little face
in.
   She whimpers, trembles and then:
   "I - ahhgg - I l-love you!"
   I slap her again.
   "Not like that!  Tell me like you mean it, cunt!  Tell me the way you
would tell your mom or your dad."
   Tears spill down her face.  She cries silently looking into my eyes, her
perfect little brows arched.
   There is no understanding there - only sheer mindless terror.
   I want to kill this one bad.  Real bad.
   "I - love - you - Sir."
   "That's better.  Now get to work on my prick.  Lick all that shit and
blood off'a there."
   Laying back comfortably on the bed of the woman I butchered only hours
ago out there in the guest house I raise my arms up to frame my face and
grip the sweet-scented pillows, giving myself to my victim, spreading my
legs slightly further apart as she slowly leans down and begins to lick the
top of my prick.
   I close my eyes and dwell on the sensation of the girl-child's tender
mouth and tongue on my throbbing shaft.  I know she will do exactly as
she's told. There's no longer any question of attempted escape.  Amy's will
is shattered.  Amy's soul is mine.  She follows my instructions with no
hesitation.
   "Mmmm - that's a good girl.  Lick it.  Lick the top of it, Amy.  Lick
all around the top of it - yessss - that's real nice.  Now put your lips
over it and suck.  Ahhh.  Goddamn - that's it - no - don't stop keep doing
it - mmm - now rub your cheeks on it - yeah - on the tip - on the sides -
lick underneath there - ohhh - yeah - that's real nice, Amy."
   The memory of her sleeping face, her peaceful unconscious face, before I
woke her, cupped in my hands, her soft lips under mine - those downy lips
now on my hard aching prick - those baby-smooth cheeks - the memory flashes
through my mind - the sensations tingle through me.
   "Get your mouth around the head - ahhh - I know its hard for you but try
- yess - yes, Amy - open wide for me - wide as you can - Your little
shithole took me now your mouth will - I know it can - ohhh yeahh, Amy -
now keep your lips around it - ah - and - and move your head up and down -
mm - up and - and down - ohh yesss, baby - yess - yess - uh -upp - and -
down - don't stop - ahh - yeahhh.'
   I have to look, have to see and I open my eyes and look down the length
of my body to observe my captive angel framed in the light coming from the
bathroom doorway, her little head bobbing slowly up and down on me, her
eyes shut tightly, tendrils of her silky hair teasing my strong thighs.
   Reaching down I take the end of the phone cord which is draped over my
right leg and I pull on it slightly choking her while she sucks my cock.
   "Ahh yess, baby - tell me you love me again - tell me again -"
   She lifts her head up to look at me.
   A line of faeces drips from her lip.
   "I - love - you - Sir."
   I feel a quivering surge in my balls.
   "Keep sucking me, scumbag," I command tugging on the phone cord, guiding
her back down to my prick.
   She gasps and I see her bound hands clenched together but she cups me in
her small mouth and takes as much of me as she can handle bobbing up and
down instinctively.
   Amy Santos is a natural cocksucker.
   She fucking NEEDS to die.
   "Lick my balls you little cunt," I tell her.
   And she does so, whimpering, moving down to push her little face into my
genitals, her tongue darting with delicious intent all over the swollen
hairy sacs at the base of my stony cock.
   I know now with all certainty that I'm going to beat the living shit out
of this defenseless little munchkin - and that shortly afterwards I will
cut the life from her - perhaps slice her to pieces - her lips and tongue
on my balls tell me so, clearly and unequivocally - the lost look in her
eyes - the memory of her pretty little head bobbing up and down on my
prick.
   I tug harder on the cord, choking her, bringing her back up to my cock.
   "Take it in your slimy little mouth."
   While she sucks my cock she cries, sobs, chokes as I tighten the cord
around her neck.  I grip her little head and make her gag on me, her spit
running down the length of my shaft.
   Still holding her by the choke-cord I push her back and roll over to
kneel on the bed, legs apart, my ass up, mirroring my captive's previous
position of submissive defeat, my head in Cara Lamont's perfumed pillow.
   "Lick my asshole, Amy - come on - get your face in my ass - yeahh -
that's it - push your face in there -"
   I tug on the cord to bring her up behind me, spreading my legs further,
her cheeks pressing into my sweaty buttocks.
   "Lower down, Amy - right above my balls - Yeah.  That's the spot. Lick
me.  Put your tongue in me you stinking little whore.  Fucking little
shitlicker.  Yeahh - that's the way - lick all around it - all around it -
ahhh - clean me out - stick your tongue inside me -"
   She gags and chokes.
   "Just keep licking, you little fuck - it won't be too much longer - not
much longer now, Amy - ahhh - yeahh - get me hard - stupid little whore -
lick into it - into - it - ahhhh - ahhh - lick my balls - oohhh - take them
in your mouth - shhittt - suck them - suck - suck - suck - ah - ahhh - I'm
gonna fuck you up, Amy - gonna fuck you up real bad -"
   She's sobbing pitifully.  Her tears trickle down my balls into the
quilt.
   I'm so aroused I can barely think straight.  I'm hot.  Super-heated.  I
need to cool off.
   I slide off the bed and tug the child along behind me by the phone cord
around her throat toward the rear of the house.  To keep up with my long
strides she has to run.  She stumbles along behind me, out of balance
because of the way her arms are bound behind her, knocking into walls and
furniture, almost falling, sobbing, gasping for air.
   The bright afternoon outside dazzles my eyes.
   Walking down the pool steps I enter the cool water bringing Amy with me.
Soon the water is up to my waist as I move toward the deep end.
   "Ah!" she cries as I pull her in and the water rises to her neck.
   "Ah!  Ah!  Ah!"
   I turn to yank her down under the surface and watch her kick and squirm,
her breath bubbling out of her around her head.
   "Drown, you miserable little shitt," I snarl holding her there.
   After about a minute I let her up for air and then I yank her under the
water again.  I keep her under longer this time.
   Her hands still roughly bound behind her reach and then close into
fists.
   I let her up.
   Watch her gasp, wide eyed.
   "Aghhhhh!"
   And down again.
   Little slut.  Her brows arched quizzically underwater, skin gleaming in
the afternoon sunlight streaking and sparkling on the pool surface, dark
hair blooming, billowing, teasing my bare belly, my tense erection.
   Amy Santos, bubbling away, her lips pursed, pouty.
   I yank her up out of the water and push her back under, over and over,
until she starts to go limp.
   Then I climb out of the pool and drag her up after me.
   No more playing around.  I'm in a killing mood.
   I pull little Amy Santos to a tree on the edge of the patio and loop the
strangling cord over a low-lying branch tugging her up by her neck so that
she's hung there, almost all the way up off her little toes.
   She's gagging, coughing, puking up chlorinated water, her hair clinging
to her head and shoulders in thick wet strands.
   "Cunt," I snarl.
   The familiar hatred swells up meanly in me.
   I start using Amy Santos the way a training boxer uses his punching bag,
slamming my fists into her small wet dangling body.  I love the sound of my
fists smacking into her skin - her gasping breathless grunts - her pleading
cries.
   Even though Cara Lamont's house and property is surrounded by a ten foot
concrete fence I worry that some neighbor might hear my victim's cries so I
take a strip of Pam Sloane's bikini, which I'd sliced off the unconscious
woman out here by the pool on the previous night and I take a handful of
black topsoil from the flowerbed just behind Amy.  Pinching my little
captive's nostrils shut I wait for her to open her lips wide.  I stuff her
mouth full of dirt and wind the strip of Pam Sloane's red bikini bottom
around her head tight to keep her from spitting it out.
   Then stepping back I resume by bare-fisted beating of the bound dangling
child.
   Now choking on dirt and water and spit, some of which runs out of her
nostrils in dark smeary trickles, Amy can barely make any sound at all and
her bloodshot eyes look up at me as I deliver full force punches into her
belly and chest.
   I have to lean down to make my blows effective since my vulnerable and
helpless target is at least two feet shorter but soon I've snapped three
ribs and probably ruptured her spleen and liver.  A thrusting karate kick
to her abdomen crushes her intestines.  Another sharp kick almost
dislocates her thigh from her hip.
   Blood now leaks from her dirt-gagged lips and nostrils as well.
   I punch her thighs and her little cunt hard and she pisses herself, her
feet slipping around for purchase on the flowerbed.
   I turn her around and begin to punch her back excited by the new sound
my fists make, a hollow drum-beating sound.
   I snap one of her shoulderblades with a right hand chop and kick into
her spinal cord near the waist just above her bound hands with a swift
power-driven foot-thrust hearing a dull crack.
   Amy squeals.  She pisses blood.
   Her legs twitch-kick out from under her and her head rolls back tangled
in the phone cord that keeps her hanging from the tree.
   Swinging her back around to face me I look into her face.
   Her eyes stare back nearly lifeless.
   Gripping her by her shoulder I punch her right eye slamming it back into
her head.
   She makes a strangled noise.  One leg flails backward and she twists to
one side and then the other.
   I spit in her face.  Twice.
   Slap her.
   Punch her.
   Stomp on her toes.
   Spit in her face again.
   I need to fuck her cunt now - her little virgin cunt - but before my
cock goes in there I need my knife to pave the way - the knife that is
still buried in Pam Sloane's cunt in the guest house bathroom.
   5.
   There's a twittering of birds in the trees outside.  I can see my wet
footprints leading into the guest house bedroom.  They begin as clear
prints then smear red as they move past the bloody woman entrails on the
floor.  They move toward the bed where Cara Lamont has gone stiff, still
staring in horror at the ceiling, her belly carved open.  I needed to put
my cock in her mouth one last time - kind of a goodbye gesture you might
say - or a kind of token of grateful appreciation for the usage of her home
as a killing place, after all, its not every day that I can use such a
swanky crib for my sociopathic pursuits - so I did it. I thrust my prick
deep down her lifeless throat, my kneeling legs leaving wet patches on the
bed on either side of the murdered bitch, my hands up on the bloodspattered
wall behind the bed as I leaned forward, pumping.
   Cara no longer smells sweet and feminine.  The odor of both dead women
like rotting over-ripe fruit, fills the guest house thickly.  My footsteps
move to the bathroom where Pam Sloane hangs from the showerhead drooling
dry blood, a steady water-drip from above trickling into her hair, shiny on
her forehead, glowing in the recessed halogen light - her face, too, frozen
in that silent scream when she'd realized the end of her life would be
right then, right there - that the last thing she would see in this world
would be my sneering face as I fucked her and let her choke to death after
cutting her feet to pieces - that the last thing she would hear would be
the ugly serenade of Marilyn Manson's hoarse and demonic braying, fading as
I'd slammed my butcher knife up into her cunt piercing her uterus and
bladder and lower intestines before cutting her eyes out of her head.
   Not a pretty way to die for dear dyke Pam.
   And as I follow the trail of my footsteps, yet another clue for the
murder investigation, clues which will tell so much and yet never reveal
anything, I see them amble (the predator took his time - he was in no
hurry) past the roll of copper wire which had spilled from my all-purpose
travel' bag when I'd reached in there last night for the rope and the knife
and I'm assailed by one of those momentary inspirations that sometimes
comes to me, morbid and intense.
   I'd been way too excited to carry out my original plan for Cara Lamont
with the wire, the pliars, and the framing nails last night - way over the
top - but now I am much more in control - even though the need to cut Amy's
cunt open and stuff my cock in her is like a jackhammer in my head.
   In the small living room of the guest house, still hearing the peaceful
chirping of birds like a nonsensical accompaniment from the trees outside,
I stand now at the place the imprints my bare feet have finally arrived,
frozen, captivated, my body still cool and wet from my little swim' with
Amy, my hair wet and toussled, my fists smarting from the beating I've
dealt my young neck-hung victim out in the garden by the pool, my cock
swollen hotly from the sensation of Cara's dead mouth around it.
   The television, which has been on all night, ever since my arrival and
the frenzied take-down of Pam and Cara, keeps showing an image over and
over.
   I'd never bothered to look in this direction.  The sound on the set had
been muted by one of my victims sometime last night before my arrival and
though I'd caught a glimpse of the flickering screen I assumed there would
be nothing displayed there but the usual entertainment pap, the tepid
visual diet America feeeds on night after night.  Now I stand there with an
erection that needs tending to, a roll of uninsulated copper wire, a pair
of large pliars, and a small box of frame nails in my left hand, watching.
The sound is still off but the images are, in a way, self-explanatory. 
I've picked up the remote and switched through the channels.  Almost every
one of them is carrying the same thing: the event that has taken place that
morning in New York City - roughly an hour and a half before Amy Santos
rang the doorbell at Cara Lamont's house, around the time I'd been working
out on the Soloflex - Two smouldering towers - a short video of a jetliner
jacknifing into one of them, obviously earlier - one tower collapsing and
then the other - huge gray clouds chasing people on the street - firemen
and policemen covered in whitish ash.
   "Fucking shit," I mutter.
   The bastards have finally done it.  Bin Laden.  Fucking towelhead
motherfuckers.  They finally got what they wanted.  Sure as shit I will
have several messages waiting for me when I get back.  The Rangers will be
called in for goddamn sure.  The idea of going into action again is
invigorating - as if I need any more invigoration right then - Still, the
sight of the planes striking the World Trade Center towers, the burning
Pentagon - fuck.  On CNN words run by on a strip below the images.  Suicide
mission.  Terrorists slitting throats of the passengers.  Another plane
down near Pittsburg.  I think about the terror of the people in the planes
- the slashing box knifes - the blood - the lunatic fanatics screaming out
to Allah - the flaring supernova of impact heat.
   Anger fused with sexual excitement thrums like a firestorm through me.
   That little bitch hanging in Cara Lamont's yard is gonna get it in
spades now. Shit yeah.  Filthy foreigners, coming here and taking advantage
- The fact that Amy is not Arabic but Hispanic, maybe Filipino, means
nothing to me.  She's an available target.  Arabic, Hispanic, Oriental -
makes not an iota of difference.  Especially if they are young and female.
For me, Amy's a target that needs to be taken out.  Sacred work.  Besides,
who knows how long it will be before I can have my fun again.  It might be
sweet to cut a few Arab sluts to pieces but the military supervision in
this operation will be way too intense for anything like that.  Hell, CNN
will probably have cameras up our assholes if it can get away with it.  I'd
been able to pull some shit in Bosnia but this is gonna be high profile all
the way and there will be no room for personal initiatives.
   I turn and make my way back to my naked beaten child victim hanging by
her neck in the yard, my feet now dry and leaving no imprints.
   I'm sure that Amy will be my last personal special ops project for a
while and I'm prepared to take full and unrepressed enjoyment while I still
can.
   Afternoon is fading down into evening and I know that they'll be looking
for the little piglet - her family - maybe the police, though its still
early for that - Amy's disappearance will have drifted into relative
unimportance because of the day's events.  But not to her parents who must
be making calls or driving around out there already looking for little Bo
Beep - my little sheep.
   She hangs there so pretty, wrists still cruelly bound behind her back,
dark wet hair plastered against her face, her toes scrabbling against the
slippery tile, rivulets of blood and water running down her shapely little
legs, one eye wide open, the other one, the one I'd punched, bruised shut,
yellow-purple and swollen.  Garden dirt rolls from her lips split wide by
the strip of tightly wound red spandex which had been Pam Sloane's bikini
bottom.  It spills from her nostrils as she gasps and gags for air, the
telephone cord I've whipped her with in Cara Lamont's bedroom snagging her
neck and twisting her head slightly to one side.  Streams of dirt move down
her welted and bruised skin, down her chest and belly and thighs.  Some
bruises are charcoal black - others bluish-green.  The marks left by the
telephone cord where I'd flogged her with it are sharp single lines, etched
in dark red across the middle of her body, across her thighs and across her
small but shapely little asscheeks.  Now the cord is leaving an ugly red
chafe-band around her squeezed neck.
   She watches me come up on her quivering with terror, twitching, making
quirky unintelligible sounds in her throat.
   I need her badly.  Especially after the televised images I've just seen
in the guest house.  I've sheathed my combat knife to a black leather belt
around my waist, just like the previous night - I'm on the final phase of
this personal mission now.
   My little spic bunny is going down.
   I put the copper wire, the pliars and the box of frame nails down on the
ground and stride to the other end of the pool patio.  I roll the barbecue
grill, a real nice brand new one which appears not to have seen much use,
past the Soloflex and the pool, back to where my child prisioner hangs. 
Then I go in the main house, get some matches from a cupboard in the
kitchen and light the burner in the grill while Amy gasps for air
desperately, going way up on her toes behind me.
   The investigators will find my prints on the grill's handle-bar and in
several other places throughout Cara Lamont's property.
   I cut the nylon strand that winds around Amy's wrists and she reaches up
immediately to grab at the cord around her throat but her wet numb fingers
cannot loosen it and she cannot reach up high enough to the branch above to
get free of it.
   She then grabs at the cloth around her face to ungag herself.
   "Put your hands down," I growl meanly.
   There is no hesitation.  Her hands slide down to her sides.
   "Ngggg!  Nnnn!" she groans, looking up at me with her one open eye, bits
of dirt rolling down her chin.
   "Shut up, pig," I spit and punch her in the stomach, knocking her breath
out, sending new pain through her beaten busted-up innards, making her
twist and pirouett on the throat cord.
   Turning I reach down and pick up the roll of copper wire.
   Its time to stretch baby out.
   I cut two strands of wire and pull her arms up toward the overhead
branch.
   Winding the cord tightly around her already chafed and discolored wrists
I make the metal cut into the skin as I secure each wrist to the branch,
arms apart and upstretched.  Then I cut two more strands of wire and
pulling each leg up off the ground I bind her limbs by the ankles to the
same branch, legs wide open, Amy now dangling in the most blatantly obscene
and sexually vulnerable position a female victim of any age can be put in.
   "Mmmmm," I moan as I reached out and take a hold of her tiny cuntmound,
spreading the lips open as I'd done earlier in the day when she'd been
unconscious on Cara Lamont's bed inside the house, only now I'll be doing a
lot more than kissing and licking.  The kissing and licking stage has
passed.  I have wire-bound her to the tree branch at just the right height
for penetration, three feet off the ground.  "You gonna give me your pussy?
Huh?  Huh, little baby?  Is little baby gonna give daddy her soft baby
pussy?"
   Her one open eye is full of tears and desperation and she shakes her
head from side to side.
   "Nhh!  Nhh!" she grunts.
   "No?  Awww.  Little baby's not gonna give her little pussy away?"
   After cutting the copper wire to secure her on the tree I have sheathed
my knife.  I reach back now and unsheath it to show her the seven inch
jagged blade.  I bring it up right to her gagged features.  The blade
catches the late afternoon sun sending silver rays across Amy's beaten
face.
   "That's o.k.  - cause daddy's gonna take little baby's pussy anyway."
   Her mons is bruised and swollen from my beating earlier and the cute
little oyster-colored slit drips urine and blood.
   "Mmm.  I think baby's a bit small for daddy's peepee to fit into it.  So
we're just gonna have to make it a little - bit - bigger."
   Her eye stares in wild terror as the blade moves down to her middle.
   I position the Rambo knife, jagged edge upward, the tip at her cunthole,
my other hand keeping the labia spread wide.
   The image of the jetliner slicing into the World Trade Center tower
passes unbidden through my mind.
   "...yeahh - just - a - little - bit - bigger," I growl pushing the sharp
weapon slowly into Amy's innocently virginal sex.
   "Ehhigghhh!Iighhhhh!" she shrieks, the sound muffled by the wad of
garden dirt stuffed in her mouth, her body jerking up and down making the
branch above wobble and shake.
   "Keep still, pig, or I'll just cut your guts out right now."
   My threat restrains her response somewhat but she still whines
hysterically, her legs occasionally kicking out against the wire, one ankle
already chafed bloody, as I drive the sharp combat knife up into her
undeveloped vulva, slicing her hymen and opening a bigger scarlet slit in
her, a fuckable bubbly wound nearly two and a half inches long.
   I retract the knife and sheath it then step up off the concrete patio
and on to the garden dirt between my angel's widespread legs to put my
prick right to her knife-fucked lovehole.  Blood spurts on to my shaft,
down my balls and with a fierce grunt I enter Amy Santos properly, the way
a male should enter female meat, for the first time - Alpha and Omega -
first and last male to take her cherry.
   I cup her whipped butt cheeks in my hands and begin to work myself in
and out of her, opening the wound even further as she writhes in agony.
   Fucking a bound and dangling victim has always been the most intense
high for me.  A female, adult or child, should be bound and helpless for
penetration in any case but when she is wounded and hanging by her limbs,
unable to hamper her violator's will in any way, such an atrocious rape-act
is the ultimate sine-qua-non of domination.  And when she is a helpless
child, innocent and unsoiled besides, with her little cunt knife-sliced
open to facilitate the business, the sadistic act is absolute - terminal -
perfect.
   Amy's silky blood-lubed flesh wrapped around my hot manspear is a
breath-stopping sensation.  The meaty resistance and tightness of her small
uterine passage, her sobbing heaving body, her beaten face moving from side
to side, my fingers sinking into the welt-ridged skin of her butt to raise
her slightly so that I can slide in deeper - this is what I need - this is
my hunger - as fanatical and soul-less as the will to smash a jet into an
office tower.
   Stubbornly I thrust into her - angrily.  Such beauty and innocence has
to be punished, gouged out, murdered.  There is no justice sweeter than
this payback, this hideous defilement of all that civilization holds up as
holy and untouchable.  Civilization is bullshit - this is all that counts -
my absolute unquestioned power and my victim's hopeless suffering and pain.
I need to take all I can from her, to claim unquestioned victory, to ream
Amy Santos brutally.  I am a powerful predator, skilled in hand-to-hand
fighting and weaponry, able to take grown men down in face-to-face combat.
What chance does this child have against me?  I can snap her in two like a
dry twig at any moment if I so wish.  But a long drawn out take down is
what is called for here, what is - necessary.  I've experienced nothing
more emotionally intense than the killing of female children - the long
slow rape and sodomy - and Amy is so good for me, crying, gagged with dirt
and red spandex, beaten, one eye shut permanently.  And because these
moments will be the last, these moments filled with a vehement cruelty she
has never experienced, she will die not just physically violated but
psychologically as well - she will die with her mind and soul full of me,
owned by me for eternity.  She will be my karmic property - lock, stock and
barrel - heart, mind and soul.
   And that's the way I fuck her.  Deep, hurtfully and meanly.  Now
stuffing as much of me into her little body as I can.  I'm going for a full
sheathing of cockmeat - a hilt-to-the-balls fuck.  Three quarters of the
way in her my prick comes up against the base of her uterus.
   "Ngh!  nnng-Ghh!" she whinnies, shaking her head wildly.
   I move my hands up her back to her shoulders for leverage.
   Slowly I pull her toward me as I push forward, rising slightly, my toes
gripping the flowerbed dirt, my body supercharged again, beaded with sweat,
no longer cool, a fevered flush on my face.
   I can only imagine what a demonic sight it must be for my little angel,
a buzz-haired monster with slitted green eyes and snarling mouth shoving
hard meat into the core of her.
   Talk about violation.
   There is some give, some resilience inside her but ultimately there is
rupturing and blood and I'm rewarded by her whining shrieks and gasps,
mucous and dirt trickling from her nose, tears from her good eye and from
the one swollen shut from my punch as my cock breaks through.  She trembles
in my embrace, my hands gripping her upflung arms just above her shoulders
so tight that my fingers squeeze her to the bone.
   "Yeahhh," I hear myself groan, my voice hoarse and strained and nasty.
"YE-ahhh, Amy - that's my little raffle-girl - that's my little bitch -
uhhhhh - I'm filling you UP, bitch - all the way - uuuhhhh - yeahhh - all
the fuckin' way..."
   And I look down to verify the fact.  Sure as shit I can go no further.
I'm totally inside - I've arrived - this is visually authenticated,
one-hundred-per-cent beaver-splitting, child-killing impalement.  Amy
Santos is full.  My balls are right up against her tight little asscheeks.
This is where I want to be and need to be, my victim's body quivering all
around me.  I can feel her sobs, her breath, her cries through my cockmeat,
resonating in my lower belly and in my balls.  I am part of her.  I am
fused with her....
   Now I begin to fuck...in and out...slow-thrusting, slow-paced,
mind-numbing sick-pleasure fuck, bent over her, looking into her gagged
face, enjoying her with pitiless cruelty.  And she gives me so much, trying
to open herself, trying to open her legs wider - she gives and rewards me,
unwillingly of course.  I have no fantasies of submission from such a
victim.  Some women have given me that in the final moments - complete
annihilating surrender and even co-operation - but I do not expect that
from Amy - I do not consider it a viable perk.  This kind of fuck is its
own reward.  This is about taking and owning, imposing and defeating.  I am
fulfilling a deep-rooted masculine appetite for control and destruction. 
I'm taking pleasure in bringing this focused violence upon an undeserving
innocent because these two opposites must collide - Amy and I must be one -
there is no higher calling, no purer force in the universe.
   As before, at these dizzying heights of physical pleasure time begins to
slow down - slower and slower - the afternoon eternally fading casting
orange and red glows across the surface of the pool as I rape the hanging
child.  The pace of in and out thrusts increases and decreases, increases
and decreases, like waves pounding against the reefs.  While I fuck her my
hands move all over her body.  I touch her bruises and welts and feel them,
empathize with her pain, assimilate and understand each wound - I squeeze
the places my fists have struck, the cracked ribs where the skin darkens
ominously, the tender swollen areas in her belly.  I smile down on her
tears.  I'm inspired by the sensation of her warm blood and urine leaking
from her little pussy against my invading prick which batters and pounds,
never stopping.  I run my fingers through her wet sticky hair and touch the
tears that pour from her eyes.  Gently I take the beaten eye between thumb
and forefinger to squeeze a drop of blood from it, a scarlet drop that
follows her tears down her face.  I scoop up the red drop on my pinky and
bring it to my lips to drink from Amy Santos - the rusty taste of her blood
sending chills through me - peeling more layers away.  I am just energy now
with no thought and no memory.  I am action and reaction.  In-thrust and
out-thrust.
   I don't know how much time goes by but it is getting dark now and I'm
very close to cumming.  Two more in and out thrusts and I'll finish inside
Amy - so I stop though it is not easy - not easy at all - my breath is fast
and uneven - shivers run up and down my legs.
   I step back sliding out of her.
   The raping is over for now.
   The time for Amy's terminal pain has come.
   The child groans with the physical effort of releasing me and a hissing
fart escapes her ravaged asshole followed by a pulpy burst of bloody shit -
fertilizer for the flower bed below.
   The flame in the grill burns brightly.
   I take the pliars and open the box of frame nails.
   I heat the first nail over the flame while Amy whimpers weakly and farts
again, more blood and shit, a trickle of urine pumping from her violated
body.
   I turn to her with the nail smouldering on the pliars.
   My voice is emotionless:
   "I hate you.  I'm going to hurt you real bad.  Then, I'm going to kill
you. Slowly."
   She starts to sob, her eyes shut tightly.  I speak louder so that she
can hear me over the sounds she is making.
   "You are a piece of shit.  A worthless nothing.  A little animal cunt.
Don't think there is any reason why I've done this to you.  There is none.
You came to the door and I wanted you.  That's all.  You deserve it. 
You're here.  You're just unlucky, that's all, and now your body and your
soul are mine - forever. You won't be growing up and going to high school.
There won't be any dates for you.  I'm the only man you'll ever have in
your life.  You'll never go home. Never see your mom or your dad again. 
You're alone forever, Amy.  You've always been alone - you just didn't know
it.  We're all alone."
   I lean over her and push the sizzling nail into her right nipple,
piercing down into the brown wrinkled nub.  Her scream, muffled by the dirt
in her mouth is beautiful, a wail of injustice sent into the falling night
as her head pulls against the strangling cord and her legs and arms jerk
against the wires.
   "That's right, baby.  Scream your little heart out for me.  Mmmm.  Hurt
for me, Amy - hurt - for - me -"
   I push the nail in deeper.
   "You won't be growing up, Amy.  No afternoon walks by the seashore for
you.  No romance.  No heartbreak.  No career.  No trips abroad -"
   I turn and heat another nail on the flame.
   "- None of that, baby.  Nope.  It all ends for you right here.  You're
going to die tonight.  You're going to die for my pleasure and for no other
reason."
   Swinging back over my victim I look into her face.
   Her one open eye is shimmering with terror.
   I push the second nail into her other nipple.  Pretty little nipples
that will never give milk.
   Her response to the penetrating metal burning into her is the same as
before.  Unchecked anguish.  Kicking and jerking against the wire and cord.
   Agony, pure and bright from this innocent body.
   "There's two others in the guest house over there," I tell her as I push
the nail in.  I want it deep.  I want it to stay in her - more clues for
the crime scene hounds - more evidence of my limitless barbarism.
   "Two other cunts, Amy.  Dead now.  I trashed them last night.  I thought
about showing them to you earlier but there's no real point.  I'd rather
you learn from your own perspective what being a victim is all about...It
was nice, though.  I wish you could have seen it.  They hurt and screamed
real nice for me.  The place in there is covered with blood and shit and
body parts- real messy."
   I'm heating up another nail now.  Darkness is coming in degrees.
   Amy dances on the wires.
   "I think its gonna be messier with you, though."
   Gripping her hanging leg by her calf I sink the third nail into the back
of her thigh.  Her dance becomes frenetic.
   "Oh, yesss.  Much messier."
   "There's a lot of cruelty in the world, Amy."
   I'm getting the fourth frame nail ready - I'm turning to her.
   "Lots of cruelty and inhumanity - things you've never seen.  Just think
of me as your teacher, baby."
   I lick my lips and reach out to spread her chubby welted buttcheeks
slightly apart brining the nail to the flesh between her sliced open pussy
and her swollen anus.
   "Learn from me."
   I push the hot nail into her right there, right into creamy girlflesh,
deep, the small sliver of metal tearing and burning skin and membranes.
   "Learnnnn -"
   "Uuwwhhhggg!" she grunts, her body stiffening and trembling, a longer
louder blood-bearing bleating fart escaping her punished butthole,
shit-muck drooling from her.
   "Yesss, Amy.  Yesss.  You see.  You see what a mess I've made of you.
How quickly a prettly little girl like you, all honest and cute and riding
your bike around the neighborhood can be turned into a pile of farting,
shitting blood- covered crap?"
   Another nail over the grill flame.
   "The women in the guest house were pretty too.  Yeah.  People thought
the woman who owned this house was just the cat's meow.  She was a big time
fashion magazine editor.  Youngest one to ever get the position.  Had her
picture taken with the President and the first Lady - a lot of good that
did her last night, right, Amy?  - A lot of fuckin' good -"
   I grip the child's suspended leg and thrust the hot nail into her
knee-hollow.  Her cry of pain is the best and only answer to my question.
   "But she was just trash.  She and her dyke girlfriend.  Trash.  Like
you. I had to show her - like I'm showing you because you're not aware of
it.  You need a teacher to show you the way."
   I twist the nail back and forth as it goes in, I push it into the bone
under the skin and Amy makes shrilly girl squeaks with each twist of the
pliars.
   Turning from her I prepare the next nail.  There are nearly twenty more
in the box.
   "Lots of people died in New York today, Amy.  Lots of them.  Some were
just kids like you.  Maybe even babies.  The people blew up and burned up
and were crushed.  Some of them even jumped out of the burning buildings,
Amy. Hand in hand."
   When I turn to her she's shaking her head.  The nails I've already put
in her are still smouldering.  I know she's trying to tell me to stop.
   Dumb bitch.
   Fat chance.
   No one can stop the universe.
   With a hard quick thrust I drive this nail deep into her thigh and watch
her squirm and suffer.  I feel her suffering in my cock.  I stroke myself
watching her then turn to heat up the next nail.
   "There's lots of cruelty in the world, Amy.  So much of it.  An ocean of
it. What I'm doing to you is just a little bit.  Not much at all when you
get a true perspective - I'm sure its a lot to you though.  And that's ok."
   Another quick thrust, another nail in her thigh, just below the other
from which blood already flows.
   "It's ok, because your pain is all for me, Amy.  Its not for God, or
country. Its not for the system or the revolution or the future of
mankind."
   I look down on her wondering if all of this is just over her head.
   Poor dumb ass-bunny.
   Viciously I thrust a hot nail into the sole of her foot and watch her
sob and jerk around.
   "Your pain is mine, Amy.  All of it.  Just for me."
   I put six more in her legs.
   Three in her belly - one most probably piercing through her stomach
wall.
   Two in each foot, one which I have to bang into the heel bone using the
pliars as a hammer, making the wire which is looped around the ankle tautly
vibrate.
   She passes out.
   I give her a shot of adrenalin, the one dose left over from last night's
orgy of destruction.
   I need her conscious for the rest of this and for what will follow.
   The last three nails go into her face, into her cheek bones above her
gagged mouth.
   Then I push my cock back into her to fuck my tortured angel's bloody
gashed twat, her asshole and pussyhole now just one bloody slit, working
myself up again gradually, enjoying her twitching, gasping suffering as
night falls around me.
   She bleeds and hurts and cries.
   There is no more need of words.
   This day has used up all the words ever invented.
   6.
   Cara Lamont's dining room will be the last stop on my slaughter-angel's
journey.
   I have cut Amy down from the oak tree in the garden and carried her
inside to lay her out on the expensive banquet table under the tear-drop
chandelier.
   This will be the slaughter-altar.
   I heat my knife on the stove, the blue gas flame flickering and licking
at the jagged metal.
   The lights are on, the blinds drawn, the house quiet.
   Amy's no longer gagged.  When I'd worked myself up with her outside when
I felt truly ready, sufficiently energized to finish what I'd started, I'd
unsheathed the knife and cut the wires that held her up on the tree.  She
slid down to kneel, still neck hung by the telephone cord and I cut the
spandex cloth from her face and stepped back to piss on her, to
pressure-hose the dirt from her mouth with my piss - yeah, to urinate in
her mouth just as I'd planned when she'd come to the front door that
morning.
   I'd been holding the need to empty my bladder nearly all day and the
stream of urine must have gone on for nearly two minutes.  She drooled
black dirt and blood, trying to turn her head away, held in position by the
choke-cord.  She gagged and choked and puked while I pissed on the nails in
her face, on her bruised swollen eyesocket, in her hair, on her beaten
nail-pierced, bruise-streaked body.  Then I'd cut the choke-cord and she
dropped to the ground in a puddle of shit and piss and mud at my feet.  I'd
dragged her to the pool by her hair, dragged her along the ground and
rolled her into the water to wash her off.
   I wanted her clean before taking her into the house - clean for Cara
Lamont's fine eating table.
   Now she lies on the improvised altar, wet and shivering in a puddle of
pool water.  She's on her back.  Strands of wire lead from her thumbs and
from her big toes to the table legs under her keeping her spreadeagled in
final cruel bondage, copper wire wound killingly tight, to the bone.
   "Pleease -" she whimpers softly looking down her body at me as I stand
before the stove.  "Pleease - don't - d-don't - kill - me."
   I come for her moving slowly into the room.
   "My m-momma's waiting on me to come h-home, mister - please, mister - oh
please please please - don't - I'll be good - I'll be a good girl -
pleeeease!"
   I know her screams will not be heard oustside the sound proof, storm-
windowed house.
   I need her screams.  I need to go deaf with them.
   I start to tell her she will not be going home but I say nothing.  There
are no more words.  No reply necessary for Amy Santos.  I am ready to
complete this long delicious day of death and if she doesn't get it,
nothing I will say will make any difference.  The knife will speak for me.
   Like music, the language of the knife is universal.
   Again, as I stand over her, I'm stunned by how small she is, how tiny
and vulnerable.  On this huge table she looks even smaller and more
helpless than before, her body bruised, lacerated, pierced, her face
beaten, eye swollen, her limbs pulled apart by the thin taut wire strands.
   Later I will find the money from other raffle tickets she has sold in
the neighborhood and the ticket stubs in the pocket of her black shorts.  I
will toss the tickets and stubs in the toilet to flush them - a final act
of inexplicable senselessness, somehow necessary.  And I will pocket her
money and keep her little shorts and her panties, so small and doll-like,
as souvenirs.
   "Pleeease, mister - no - mommie!  Mommieeee!"
   I grab her leg by the ankle.
   Earlier, before heating up the knife I yanked all the nails from her -
slowly.
   They hurt almost as much going in as coming out.
   I made sure of that.
   She's bleeding on Cara Lamont's dining room table.
   Her raped, knife-fucked cunt bleeds.
   "No!" she screams.  "Nooo!"
   I bring the blade to her little foot, cut from the heel at the sole all
the way up to neatly slice her big toe off with the serrated edge above the
binding wire.
   I've done this kind of thing before.  Many times.  Its no more difficult
than skinning and gutting venison but so much more pleasurable.
   Blood jets from the mutilated limb, spurts on my hand and face as I lean
over to let it wet me.
   Free of the wire her leg now kicks out as she shrieks and pleads and
calls out again for her momma.
   I hold her leg effortlessly and begin to slice the rest of her toes from
her foot. Each time I slice through another nugget of flesh and bone she
intakes desperate gulps of air to let out the most lovely high pitched
cries.  She yowls and bangs her wet skull against the hard table.  The heel
of her other foot thumps against the wood.
   I move to the other side of the table.
   Her free mutilated foot kicks out, the free leg flexing and twisting and
slamming against the table.  Blood spurts out all over the white wallpaper
on the walls, up into the chandelier, in swaths across the white carpet and
the glass doors of the china closet.
   I grip her other leg.
   "Nn-aaaaaa!  AAiiieeeeee!" she wails.
   I take my time carefully, efficiently slicing the big toe cleanly off my
screaming captive's foot, watching it dangle and then break off on to the
table as I lean in again for the hot fresh spurts of foot blood.
   I need to be bathed in her.
   My sins washed away.
   All my human sins.
   Continuing as before, I cut each of the remaining toes off the small
limb and then step back releasing her leg, jerking off as I watch her kick
her bleeding legs furiously against the table.
   My Amy is a living lewdly-dancing blood-sprinkler.
   Let the lab boys have a look at this.
   Spatter patterns like you wouldn't believe.
   Expressionist strokes on the canvas of this dining room - like Jackson
Pollock meets Better Homes And Gardens.
   My little dying angel does not go willingly to her death - She does not
go gentle into that good night - not at all.  The little animal fights it
tooth and nail with every bit of energy left in her small strong body.
   As her legs kick sideways and backward I'm sprayed with her hot blood
and I groan almost cumming.  Her gory death dance on the table is a sight I
will never forget.  It is pitiful, horrible, exciting, apalling,
disgusting, intense.
   I move toward her, seize her left arm.
   She's screaming with all she can muster, piercingly.
   My ears will ring for days.
   I just study her slowly stroking myself.
   She's looking up at me but her eyes are crazed - the one eye, not
bruised shut - like the eye of an animal herded toward slaughter.
   I cut her pinky first, at the first joint and then at the second then I
move to the fourth finger and do the same - the third - the second -
slicing the small digits from the child's hand which is still held in check
by the wire around her thumb and by my strong hand gripping the wire-chafed
wrist - hacking away with evil intent.
   I stab right through her hand and then into her arm repeatedly with my
knife, the blade no longer hot from the grill's flame - now cold
blood-smeared steel - getting more screams from her as her legs flop
against the bloody table and splash blood all over the chairs and walls.
   The sliced off finger-pieces are scattered next to her head on the table
and on the chair.  As she twists around her wet hair sweeps some of the
flesh bits to the floor beside me.
   She plants her mutilated feet on the tabletop and arches upward, knees
bent, then twists to one side and the other finding no escape, held by her
thumbs.
   I slice some cuts in the soft meat on the inside of her little thighs,
not very deep.  I push the blade tip hard into her cuntmound, then into her
belly.
   Collapsing on the table she brings her legs up in a fetal position
folded under her thighs as I move around to the other side and take her
other arm.
   "GA-ahhhhh!pleeeeeease!" she whines.  "N-noooooo!"
   My face is an expressionless mask as I cut into her other hand,
concentrating on the horrible piecemeal destruction of my child victim.
   Sacred work, sweet and unstoppable.
   When I'm finished with that hand I leave it too wired by the thumb,
leave Amy to thrash about on the bloody table, weaker now, as her life
spills all over the opulent room and I return to the kitchen to heat up a
long strand of copper wire on the flame.
   When the wire glows red on the end of the pliars, minutes later, I
return to my victim and issue my command.
   "Spread your legs open and keep them there."
   She stops her weak struggling movements moaning weirdly, suddenly
coughing up a mouthful of blood.
   "Do it," I snarl.
   I half-expect she's beyond obedience but I'm proved wrong and am
delighted when she follows my order, dragging her mutilated bleeding legs
apart on the bloody table crying softly.
   "- no - more -" she groans brokenly.  " - ahg - pleease - no - more -"
   There is no reply.
   What can I tell her as I lean down to position the hot wire over her cut
up cunt slit - that there is limitless cruelty in the universe?  That to
say no more' is to waste your breath?
   No.
   Instead I shove the hot copper wire deftly into her urethra pushing the
six inch strand into her, drawing shrill inchoate cries from my baby angel.
She babbles, her fingerless hands tugging against the thumb-lines, her
heels banging against the table.  But the little bitch knows her place, she
knows who's in charge here, and she keeps her legs open for me and I put in
the full length of wire burning her all the way to her bladder, breaking
her inside, piss and blood jetting out of her as the hissing metal fuses
against her skin, melts and scalds her inside.  She lets me wire-fuck her,
doesn't try to stop me, keeps her thighs open, grants me access.  She is
accepting her fate, submitting, learning the lesson I've been teaching,
beautiful little fuck, hurting and dying for me on Cara Lamont's
blood-covered table.
   I cut some more lines on her tender thighmeat, and stab her belly and
chest, not going deep, just prodding and poking.
   She's very weak now and I don't think she needs to be bound any longer
so I take the knife and cut both her hands off her at the wrists.  They
fall away dangling by the thumbs from the wires around the table legs.  The
arm-stumps jet blood on to the table and floor making fresh spatters on the
wall behind the table as she sobs and moves them around pointlessly.  I
grab one and direct the pulsing stream against my cock, moaning, lost in
the sensation of hot gushing baby-girlblood on my genitals and thighs.
   Aroused powerfully I go to the other end of the table and slowly and
deliberately cut her feet off her legs, slicing deep into the ankle and
then, with considerable effort, through the hard ankle bones.  Earlier I
had tasted these cute baby tootsies - now I wanted more than a taste.
   I pick up each toe-less foot and smear my mouth on it, lick and suck the
blood off the stump-cuts and bite the instep and the heel, sink my teeth
deep into the tender meat, snarling and growling like a wild dog.  No more
pumping bike pedals or running around the neighborhood for these sweet
little limbs.  I pick up the small toes that are still on the table on the
blade of my knife and I raise them into my mouth, chew them and eat them.
Moving back to my previous position I snatch up the bits of her fingers - I
slice bits of her severed hands - hands that have played with dolls and pet
kittens, hands that have pressed together each night in fervent simplistic
prayer - I eat, savoring every last bit of Amy Santos.
   She watches me as I devour her flesh, helpless spectator to her own
cannibalistic destruction - shattering horror to a child who up until this
morning had probably never even seen a naked man or had the slightest
inkling that such perverse violence even existed in the world.
   I've eaten girlmeat before, although I have not done so for a long time
- I was not tempted to do so with Pam and Cara the night before - but Amy
is exceptionally delicious and the taste and texture of her young flesh
stirs up the darkest foulest brutality.
   My hatred and contempt of the little slut boils inside me.
   I'm going to cut her out of this world like a bad cancer.
   I stab Amy's legs and thighs, hard now, pushing the blade into her
sliced, welted, bruised flesh and I drink the blood from the gashes.
   There's not much further for the little bitch animal to go.
   I climb up on the table with her and slam the knife into her chest
drawing it down to cut her open from her neck to her cunt, peeling back the
flaps on either side as she groans weakly.
   She's as lovely inside as out, perfectly shaped organs - liver, stomach,
intestines - puffy and swollen from the beating and here and there pierced
by the hot nails and the knife tip - but still perfect anatomically.
   I touch each of her innards gently - run my fingers lightly over the
exposed ribs, three of them cracked and twisted from my blows.  Inside
she's hot and pulsing - still full of life - lungs filling and emptying -
her heart beating fast.
   Again she pukes up a burst of fresh blood and turns her head from side
to side, always weaker, now silently wheezing as I roll her over on her
belly spilling her guts on the table under her.
   I remember how she looked this morning, unconscious, on the bed, in just
this position, before waking to find me shoving my thumb up her asshole and
biting her little buttcheeks.  My teeth-marks are still there imprinted on
her forever now.
   The criminologists will take pictures.
   Dental records will be analyzed.
   They will find nothing.
   There is no record of me.  No birth certificate.  No fingerprints.  No
DNA.  And, naturally, no dental records.
   I was supposed to have died in a helicopter accident in Panama in the
eighties.  I'm an underground operative, code-named and numbered, used for
jobs no one will claim responsibility for.  A nameless Ranger who will be
put on a godforsaken landscape to execute a godforsaken mission.  I will be
used like a weapon of war - bluntly and inhumanly - just as I now use my
captured angel.
   Lovingly, I put my blade between Amy Santos' shoulderblades.
   Love and hate are fused together.  Light and darkness.  Alpha and Omega.
   She moans softly.
   Coughs.  Chokes.  Bleeds.
   I bear down on the blade and cut all the way to her little ass, through
welts and bruises, right to the crack between both cheeks.
   Blood streams flare out from the sliced skin.
   Moaning I lift up the epidermal layer and caress the hot red meat
underneath.
   Aroused to fresh violence I stab her buttocks repeatedly, frenziedly,
making a mess of her.
   I stab her thighs and rub my cock in the sliced up meat.
   Rolling her back over I crouch over her.
   I rub my balls on her exposed gutsac.
   She's still alive - barely - her one good eye looking at me - it is a
forgiving look - helpless - sad - distant.
   You'll be gone soon, angel.  Real soon.  Up to the God you pray to each
night.
   I smile, move up to her jerking off quickly now and I shoot off in her
face, in that pretty doe-eye, in that forgiving look, blinding it shut, as
her lips part and she moans softly, dying, my cum spurting into her mouth
as I shout with released ferocity slamming my knife into her skull, right
into her forehead just above those lovely eyebrows.
   Gripping the knife handle I steer her head under me as I crouch over her
to rub my ass and balls on her bloodied sperm-smeared face her soft wet
hair sticking to my feet and ankles.
   Needing more I stagger off the table pull her toward me and ram my
half-tumescent cock up into her gashed out cunthole.
   Soon I'm fully erect again and fucking the carcass of the ten year old
her mutilated legs draped over my arms, my hands on her hips gripping her
while I thrust my dark need into her.  Her guts slither out of her with the
violence of my pounding and roll of the table.  A strand of intestine hangs
down off the arm rest of the expensive mahogany chair.
   Arching my back my head tossed back like a howling hungry wolf I shout
as the second orgasm pounds through me and I empty whatever's left in my
balls into Amy Santo's butchered body.
   I empty myself, all of myself, in blinding fury.
   I finish, explode, arrive, conclude.
   And slowly the energy subsides, the violent seething energy that has
consumed two grown women and this little bitch and I'm stunned by the gross
killing I've executed - stunned then gleeful - laughing hysterically,
leaning back against the bloody wall as the dead child's body slides off
the table and to the floor with a heavy thump.
   She lies spilled - like trash.
   I lean down to yank my knife from her skull.
   "Wrong day to be selling raffle tickets, scumbag," I snarl.
   After a few moments I slip my knife back into the sheath strapped on the
belt around my waist.
   Leaning back against the wall I piss on her again, all over her this
time, all over her savagely ripped up body, on her face and hair, into the
open gash in her abdomen.
   "Stinking dirtbag," I growl softly.
   Afterwards I go out into the patio.
   The night is blessedly cool.
   I dive into the pool and wash Amy off me, wash her off the Rambo blade.
   It will be three days before the police finally enter Cara Lamont's
house and discover the decomposing bodies.
   By that time I will already be halfway around the world leaping out of a
helicopter on to an LZ on the side of a mountain.
   Amy's shorts will be pushed deep into a box in the basement of a rental
storage space in Michigan, along with her little star studded panties.
   Around my neck, next to my dogtags which are stamped with someone else's
name, I will carry Amy's teeth, six of them, in a small leather pouch. And
on a small bit of rolled up scotch tape, some tiny black hairs plucked from
one of her cute eyebrows.
   I will carry them with me for a long time - or at least until another
victim becomes worthy of the honor.
   WOODBURN