Hunger and Heroin

I’d been doing this a while, and worked out a pretty good system. Sure, the first few times there where mistakes, but that was all part of the learning process. After that, I settled into it, and got so good, the cops never catch on. The first rule is never ever shit where you sleep. I live in a suburb of a big enough metropolitan area that I’ve got about four million other people for them to sift through. There’s lots more neighbourhoods, so it’s not hard to drive to another, and get the lay of the land. Rule number two is to find strangers. I bet you all know a lot of girls you’d love to use, but the more links you have to them, the more leads they have back. The next step is selection. I like them young, and skinny. The face is not important, but I don’t want any fat to get in the way.

In fact, it kind of helps if they’re a bit homely. They tend to have less friends around which could make it difficult. After that, I go on to surveillance. It happens to be my stalking trade, so I know how to do it right. The trick to it is to not look like a stalker. All it takes is one neighborhood watcher with 911 on speed dial to get you nicked. Don’t follow your quarry around, it’s certain to cause suspicion. Find out their common paths, and walk them often enough to see their habits, and let them get used to their presence. Finally, you pick them up. The best way to do this depends on them, and where they go on a regular basis. I’ll walk you through my next one for illustration. She’s about fifteen, short, blonde, and incredibly skinny. None in their right mind would call her pretty, and she had a bit of a depressive air about her. I figured her for a cutter, anorexic, or other self destructive type on sight. Fortunately, I caught her at home, checking the mail, so I don’t have to back track her.

The first time she saw me was a block away. I started stopping by her neighborhood, parking my minivan outside it, and walking in. Since I knew where she lived, I walked around it at night hoping she’d show up. If she didn’t, I’d find another girl, possibly in the same neighborhood. The minivan is suburban camouflage, something I’d mastered long ago. I soon determined she was in the habit of sneaking out at night, a perfect scenario for me. Her friends lived nearby, but she still had to take shortcuts through alleys, and culverts. That convinced me she was the one.

I didn’t take her right away, I wasn’t ready. Sure, I had a rudimentary knowledge of the sub division, and her habits, but a little more wouldn’t hurt while I worked up a little more anticipation. It doesn’t hurt to space these things out a bit, let the memory cool off, and take the time to bask in the glow of the last one. Finally, I could no longer stand the temptation. I camped out in a culvert where there was a good null. All the local lights where blocked, creating deep shadow, and none of the windows had direct line of sight. It was a gamble that she’d come this way, but the perfect location made it worth the wait. Finally, on the third night, I could hear her passing through the grass. I had great light advantage, saw her in the long before she got to near which prevented me grabbing some other kid by mistake. I silently pushed myself up to a crouch, and slipped a hand into the Ziploc) I had brought.

She passed right by me, and must’ve seen, or heard my movement peripherally, because she turned at the last moment. I still got the ether soaked rag over her mouth before she could scream, and held her until she got limp. In the autumn chill, she had on long sleeves, which I easily tape over. I like to put the forearms together horizontally, it makes taping harder, but also prevents movement better, and the wide stripes don’t leave marks on her tender flesh. Another strip goes over her mouth, and I carry her light frame down the ditch too my van. There where some people still up, but I wasn’t worried about them seeing me. They’re on the light side of a pain of glass that acts as a mirror when it’s dark out. I slowed to move more quietly past the inlet she would’ve taken if I hadn’t stopped her, though. Finally, I came to my van parked out of sight.

The hatch was unlatched, but closed. I’d turned off the automatic interior lights except the one in the door which I had to take out completely. This prevented tell tale lights at night, and preserved my night vision. She went behind the back seat, which I’d pulled back to minimize the room for her, and reclined until the back rested against the door when closed. Between those close quarters, and the tape, shed be fine until I got home. I resist the urge to drive fast, and obey all traffic laws. A ticketed could very well hear her back there, thumping, and squealing through her gag. I turned up the radio because it was distracting. I hate driving with an erection I can’t do anything about.

I resisted the urge to get a quick poke in back there because it’s best to get out as quickly, and quietly as possible. At the house, I trigger the arage remote, and back up to it. Closing it behind me, I can now get her out without being seen. Here’s where it becomes a pain. The garage is barely deep enough to open the hatch in there. I have to get her out, step aside to close it, then open the door to the back room. This is basically a basement, built into the hill, so there’s no windows, and cinder block walls. I’d replaced the flimsy door with a solid wood one with a good key lock. It was "backwards", so the twist knob is on the outside, and the keyhole is sealed with solder. I threw her onto the mattress in the corner, and shut it. The lock wasn’t necessary with me in there, because she couldn’t escape before I caught her anyway. Much as I would’ve loved to finish processing her, it was all I could do to undress her without tearing her clothes.

She was lovely, but not perfect, yet. Her skinny limbs where much too weak to put up much of a fight, and I could already see a bit of her ribs. On the other hand, she had a neat little beard of body hair I’d have to deal with later. For now, I had to relieve myself in her. I don’t bother with condoms, they aren’t old enough to be much of a disease threat, and pregnancy just isn’t a concern. She was nice, and tight, and struggled nicely. She screamed good too, which I could allow in this nice basement room. there isn’t much of a better soundproofing than the earth. I didn’t last long, but that wasn’t the point. I’d waited enough, and I’d have plenty of time later to take it easy. When I was done, she crawled back to the corner, and curled up sobbing. I went into the bathroom to get some stuff out of the ditty bag. There was just a shower, toilet, and sink in there. I had to take out the mirror, and shower door after one of them came at me with a piece of glass wrapped in a towel. I had to turn to keep an eye on her while I prepared in case she bolted.

She didn’t. First, I got out the works, and cooked up a dose. I figured her for about 100lbs, so I used the standard dose. I didn’t use myself, after once to try it, but the smack made them nice and compliant. She fights me as I force her down, and tye my belt onto her arm, but relaxes nicely once it’s released. In that state, she doesn’t even struggle much while I shave her. Her soft smoothe lips look so much better unadulterated and she looks almost like a child with her skinny young bald body, and barely notable breasts. Her large tips are oversized on the small conical swells, and a nice pail pink. I rub one, and it darkens with blood, pressing back into my thumb reflexively.

A little "A" escapes her gaping mouth. I know it’s the drug talking, but I still take it as a compliment. Slipping a finger between her other lips, I rub her sore dry tender flower. That elicits a nice moan of pain. I move down to lubricate it with my spit. I can taste the coppery tang of blood. She’s not haemorrhaging noticeably, so it’s not menstrual, but theres enough to taste it. She’s raw from my rough treatment, and red from the friction. I like the roughness of it, on my tongue, and the rest of me. Speaking of which, I can feel it reluctantly recover. Packing in the saliva, I prepare her for the second round. This time, I can take it easy, and with the lubrication, I didn’t have to be as forceful.

She doesn’t complain as much, or struggle, but I can like it like that too. It gives me a chance to enjoy her thin hard body around me, under me, her tight little tits, and hot nipples. Unfortunately, because of my recent climax, it isn’t enough for another one. I enjoy it while I can, and pull out to finish by hand. It’s not as vigorous either, so only the first of it makes it to her face. As the pathetic pressure lessens, it tracks down her chest, and finally drips onto her belly. I can still taste her as I bend to clean it up. I’m not gay, or anything, but I like the flavour, especially mixed with hers. After lapping off her midriff, and digging an errent drop from her navel, I move up to her chest.

Though it’s all between them, I move aside to give some attention to her breasts. I can almost suck them completely into my mouth, and bat at the swollen tips with my tongue. Moving along, I suck at her neck, and nibble gently. I kiss her, passing my nutritious seed to her mouth, then move up to get the rest. Again , I feed her our fluids, and gently instruct her to swallow. Her glottis twitches as she does, then her jaw falls slack again. Sated, for now, I pack up my ditty bag, and lock her in.

***

"I’m hungry," she says when I come back in the next day. "This will help," I hold up the already charged needle, "But first, you’ll need to satisfy me." She acted like she didn’t want it, but I knew the monkey she had on her back. We where partners, what I did to her body, it did to the soul. That, and my seed where the only nutrition she got from me. Soon enough, she approached perfection. I could see all of her ribcage except for the circles of her breasts. These receded to just the slight bulge of her glands. She came to love the drug, too. Begging for it, and willing to do anything for it. She got her meals willingly and ass her body got too loose to please me, I relived myself into her mouth, and the other end of the intestinal tract.

By then, I didn’t have to worry about it being clean. I stopped having to shave her too, what hair she had left grew brittle, and frizzy. I was greeted at the door to the baking bread scent of her degeneration. Finally, she left me. I dressed her, in her old clothes, drove her downtown where the runaways, junkies, and whores where, and left her there. When she was found, none was too surprised. I had to find another girl, now, but I could take my time. She’d satisfied me for now, and I could remember her fondly until I found someone else.

Amanda Hunt {FM Rape Snuf Drug}

It would be a dark, and stormy night, I fucking hate cliche's. To
judge from the "Hard Boiled" genre, and the film noir it spawned,
you'd think the sun never shone on this dreary sodden world.

Maybe I should move out of the Bay area, it sure wasn't helping.
Ironically, it suited my mood. I'd been looking for this guy for
months. Too bad he didn't have a set period, or hunting ground.
Two more where gone since I picked up on him, was I the only one
who saw a pattern?

A lot of girls where found downtown, young women who where
apparently not virgins, addicted to heroin, and starved to death.
"Just another runnaway junkie," they all thought, but I knew
better. 

Noone else seemed to notice that the girls all
disappeared about three, or four weeks before they where found.
Though there was no set pattern, another always went missing a
couple months later, only to be found downtown again, in a dark
alley, track marks, and apparent sexual activity, starved to
death.

Once was an occurance, twice coincidence, three times a pattern.
I'd found fourteen examples stretching back over three years. I
could only reach one conclusion, a serial rapist. Without
anything to connect them, the police had apparently missed the
pattern. That ment I had him to myself.

He picked them up in the middle class suburbs, Milpidas, San
Rafael, Pleasent Hill, Castro Valley, I had a large area to
search. He hadn't done Alameda in a while, so I figured he'd get
around to it eventually.

"I'm sorry," A man steps out of the wall of falling water, his
hand out, "My car broke down back there, do you have fifty cents
for a phone call?" He didn't look like a serial killer, they
never do. If they did, the cops would go "Hey look, a serial
killer!" and pick them up.

Ok, he's got the raincoat, but judging by the weather, it's not
that distinctive. In fact, little about him was. Early thirties,
middle height, a little stocky with a bit of a gut. He could've
been a father, uncle, or boss at some clerical job. Nobody in
particular.

Correction, he looked exactly like a serial killer. If anything,
that's what they look like. Just your average guy. If anything,
they come off a bit too average. Like this one.

My hand goes back from the knife clipped to the front pocket to a
knotted string hanging out the back one. It's the drawstring of
my change purse, about $2.00 of nickels with assorted coins in a
tough leather pouch. A practiced tap across the temple, and he'd
hit the curb like a stack of Chronicles. It was actually my
fastest weapon.

Instead, I get it out, and find that there are, in fact a couple
quarters in there. I let it hang from the pommel knot while I
drop them into his outstretched hand. He closes it, with a wet
metallic grating sound.

I twist my head back to watch as I turn to walk off. He gets the
Face-Tits-Ass shot that's made more effective by my wet clothes,
and his hand goes into a coat pocket. I start hyperventilating as
I retreat, filling my body with oxygen for the fight ahead.

The white noise of the rain covers his approach, but there's a
street lamp behind us. Enough light gets through the downpour to
see his shadow comming, and I brace myself. The first thing I see
is the rag going over my face, and I barely have time to hold my
breath.

Of course, there was no evidence of Ether, or Chloroform in the
news. By the time his victims had starved, it was long out of
their systems. Hell, any sufficiently powerfull solvent would do,
you could get toluine, and methyl-ethyl ketone by the gallon at 
any paint, or hardware store.

He'd obviously done this before, his free arm trapped one of
mine, and he kept himself out to the side so the other wouldn't
reach. I drew the dagger from the small of my back, on impulse,
but it wouldn't do me much good. 

I could concievably slash his arm, but I didn't like hacking 
around that close to my face, and neck. One would kill me, and
the other was my best weapon.

Instead, I held out untill I estimated I should be passing out,
then started to swoon. I roll the dagger between my sleeve, and
skirt to get rid of prints, and let myself fall limp.

Unfortunately, he puts me on my back with the solvent soaked rag
under my nose. I couldn't dare breathe as he goes about
processing me.

My lungs are near bursting, and I start to see stars, so I take a
cautious breath. Thank god, the puddle under me diluted it enough
that I didn't get much of a dose. 

Finally, he has me bound, and gagged to his satisfaction, lifts me 
up. I wonder idylly if he always strikes in the rain. It'd obscure 
him nicely, and wash a way a lot of evidence. Besides, it happens 
enough around here.

I'd have to check the weather on the news stories when I have a
chance.  I could kick myself for dropping my back knife. I had 
others to cut free with, but not within reach. 

Soon enough, we approach a white minivan parked on the shoulder. 
Just in case I need it, I commit the lisence plate to memory. More
urban camoflage, this guy had it down. Seeing one of the breeder 
boxes in neighborhoods like this was expected. 

As the hatch lifts, I see that the light doesn't come on. He'd 
taken the bulb out, no need to shed any light on his activities.
The rear seat isn't removed, in fact, it's rolloed all the way
back in it's track, and reclined so it rests against the door
when it closes. 

He drives off with the music up so he can't hear my struggles. 
From kinetic cues, I figure he does the speed limit.  I'm 
supposed to be too bleary to know where we're going, but I
know the tubes when I hear them. 

Likewise, the Oakland Bay bridge has a distinctive sound of 
metal mesh under the tires. He exits early, so it must be 
Treasure Island. 

Never been there, hated the book, but I figure it gives him 
nice access to the whole area. I wonder if he's got a boat?

I knew I could attract him eventually. I was no virgin, but he
couldn't tell that. I figured he just picked them up off the
streets, any girl out that late would be easilly assumed a
runaway.

Far from it, I'd been raped seventeen times. I'd also killed 
more men than he'd done women. The pretty little girl thing was 
a ruse, bait for my prey. All of them where rapist, and I killed
them all.

Contrary to popular belief, rape isn't easy. He has to hold me
down, himself up, at least partially undress us both, and enter
me all with me presumably struggling. It'd be nearly impossible
without some sort of control. 

Sure, this guy used drugs, but that was hardly neccisary. Most 
just relied on fear. I can't help but put some of the blame on 
the victims. 

Sure, they don't do the actual raping, and guys need to fucking 
control themselves, but a lot less girls would find themselves 
sexually assaulted if they'd not just lie back and take it. 

The damned "Don't hurt me" complex is drilled into our heads from 
birth, though.  I'm over it. I'm not particullarly lady like, 
though I can act it. I carry knives, and I use them to kill. 

This guy was good, but he'd fuck up eventually. They always did. 
If not, I die, I figure I got a pretty good score by now. Not 
this one though, in the weeks it'll take me to starve to death, 
he'll make his mistake, and pay for it with his life.

Finally, we're there. He pulls into a garage, by the sound of 
the automatic opener, and backs in. I act scared, and struggle 
as expected when he come to take me, but I don't make too much
effort. He takes me into a back room, directly behind the van,
and closes the door.

I fly across the room to land on a bare matress in the corner.
He's strong, I'll give him that. He didn't seem to have any
trouble with my 87lbs. I manage to sit up by the time he's done
locking the door.

He doesn't waste any time, I know he's been saving up. His type
uses girls untill they're dessicated husks, the n cools off a
while on the memories. Eventually, the need comes back. It
overcomes them, untill they can no longer contain it. He was an
addict, a junkie of abuse, and death. I was his fix.

The first thing to go is my soaked tee shirt. Next is the punch
knife in it's neck sheate underneath. The ball-chain is designed
to snap with a good jerk so I can't be strangled by it. It also
snaps him out of it some.

"What's this?" his voice has changed. No longer the needy
stranded motorist, here was the voice of a sexual predator. So
far, noone had heard it and lived. I couldn't afford fear, and
doubt now, they could be lethal. On the other hand, so could
overconfidence. He had killed almost fifteen young women, I was
ment to round it off.

I didn't reply, so he cut my gag off with it, "It's a fucking
knife," I uses my 'Duh!' voice.

"Didn't save you," he muses, and I have to admitt he's right.
Next, he carefully cuts away my jean skirt. It wasn't neccisary,
but effectively kept me from struggling too much. I don't need
another cut now, gave up on that long ago. 

"Neither did this," he snaps out my pocket knife, inspects the 
serrated concave edge.  Or this," he holds up my dagger. Now, 
I'm real happy I wiped my prints before I dropped it, only his 
are on it.

I was mesmerized by my blades, hadn't noticed him getting his own
tool out. He presses it dry against me, forces it in with a jerk.
I don't scream, barely even grunt. 

With my experience, I got fucking callouses. He seems disappointed 
by my lack of reaction. "Fucking slut," he calls me, I just stare 
into his eyes, "Couldn't keep your fucking virginity, you deserve 
this you easy fucking cunt." 

Again, I fail to react. It ain't nothing I've never heard before. 
I used to eroticise the pain, and fear of rape, get off on it. 
I was a pretty fucked up kid, but then, I grew the fuck up. I'm 
jaded now, unimpressed by the male half of the specie.

I was just waiting him out, now. He, of course didn't use a
rubber. With his plan to starve me, it wouldn't do him any good.
With his prefferance for young ones, virgins, he obviously didn't
worry about disease. Maybe I should, but later, right now, it's
all about him. Patience would win this fight.

He doesn't last long, too pent up after his celibate break. He
bottoms out, starts grunting in time as his nuts twitch. I don't
feel it, but I know he's filling me with his seed. It occurs to
me that he has a dry fetish. The starvation, rape, he must be
disgusted by bodilly fluids. I'd be willing to bet he wouldn't
cut me.

Finally, he's done. I do feel him withdraw his wilted member, and
get an involuntary shudder. He walks off to the bathroom, and I
manage to get up. Damn, he's back too quick, got a syringe in one
hand, and a length of sergical tubing in the other. "No!" he
actually hesitates at my shout. 

Jesus, he's scared of me! I'd won the first round simply by being 
so bored with it. Big deal, rape. It was a big deal to him, and 
I basically refused to be raped. As much as I hate that old saw 
about it being control, and not sex, I had to admit there was 
something to that. Sex was definitely at least half the motive, 
though.

I circled around, wondered how I would be able to fight him with
my hands behind my back. I could get cuffs around my hips, but
wrist to wrist, it was too tight. I still wasn't about to let him
shoot me full of that shit without one.

It was over all too quick. I couldn't even block, so he just
punched me, and my head exploded like a bottle rocket. I crumpled
to the cold concrete, and lay stunned long enough for him to
shoot me up.

Now I've done drugs, but so far had been able to avoid some of
the worst ones. None of them prepaired me for this. As the
tourniquette came free, it washed though my body like a tsunami
of synthetic wellbeing. I couldn't help but relax, it was almost
sexually seductive.

He gently picks me up, and lays me on the bed then, I just close
my eyes, and feel for a while. Sounds come to the bathroom, and
he returns with some kind of spray can. I can feel the foam on my
crotch, and it's a nice cool sensation in my condition. Even the
rasp of the safety razor isn't unpleasent. Just about everything
feels just fine.

He's extremely careful, I knew he had an aversion. The papers
didn't say anything about shaving, but I'm not surprised. It
makes them look younger to him, more pure. We aren't people to
him, no blood, nop feelings, just anatomicly correct love dolls
for his enjoyment. He uses the narcotic to make us nice, and
complian, he just couldn't wait the first time.

That was part of the problem, the police never mentioned rape in
the stories. It was just sex to them, because the one real rape
was already healed. After that, they where nice, and pliable. I
hadn't even realized this aspect untill I could experience it. I
know now that I'm completely relaxed, inside, and out.

Finally, he's done, and he wipes me off with a warm, damp cloth.
That feels nice too, but not as nice as the water drying off my
smooth pubis. It's a lovely breeze. "Fucking cunt," he mutters,
"Tried to kill me." I look down to see he's got my dagger again.
"Let's see how you like it!"

I gasp in fear as I feel it enter me. Despite my assumptions,
there was enough doubt for me to believe it. It's not a sharp
pain, though, more of an abrasive sensation. It comes to me
dully, through the drug haze. He's fucking me with the handle.

I regret getting the one with the checkered grip. Though nice for
fighting, it rubs me raw inside. I haven't felt pain like this in
a long time. It's strange, how sexual it can be, pain. Even
through the dulling drug, I can feel myself responding. 

"You like that?" he notices, "My you're a dirty little bitch." 
Even the verbal abuse turns me on now. I hated him, loathed him 
with a burning passion that arouses me. I don't know, maybe I'm 
wired wrong.

I idylly wonder how he manages to fuck me with the dull end. THe
blade's double edged, so he has to be carefull with it. Just a
jerk of my hips...

"Aghhhhh!" He grips his hand in front of him, blood seeping from
between his fingers. "You bitch!" his voice has changed again.
Now, he sounds hurt, betrayed. I remember the first time, cutting
myself free with my self mutilation razor, slashing the bastard,
holding him between my legs so he couldn't get away..."

His crys stop as I grab him, pull him into me. The look of pain
is frozen on his face. I grunt in pain as well, the jerk of the
handle in me, the hilt banging into my erection. He falls over,
and out of practice, I easilly eskimo roll on top. That's when he
starts screaming again.

I'm screaming too, as I fuck him to death. My weapon fucks back
into me, ripping my insides, bashing my clitorus, knocking on my
cervix. It's agony, horrible sexy extatic pain, and I feel it
build into me. The rush washes over me, more powerful even than
the drug. I arch, like a drawn bow, and scream in excruciating
extacy, and orgasmic agony. By the time I'm done, so is he. No
more struggling, no more screams.

I'm drenched, and so is he. It's hard to see all the stab wounds
through the blood. I runs down my belly, and thighs, but fails to
lubricate the gri pon my dagger. I can feel the bruise of the
hilt on my pelvis, and I don't know if my clit will ever be the
same, but I was alive. That evil sick fuck lost, and paid with
his life.