At home I was still in a daze, not so much from the murder as from the colossal orgasmic experience. In bed, I fell asleep almost immediately, my hand between my legs and my dreams filled with images of the evening. It wasn't at all scary or disturbing, in fact my inquisitive mind went over all the details, over and over again, trying to gain knowledge and understanding. It was only in the morning when the first fear came. The first slivers of doubt about my actions the previous night. Woken up by the alarm-clock, my warm bed was soon chilled by the many thoughts that assaulted me relentlessly.
What if the police found me and I was discovered? My well kept secret that I had spend years to protect, exposed? I didn't want that to happen! I didn't want a scandal, my face on TV like a filthy common criminal! It would unravel all the control I had, all the freedom to find and, basically, fuck whomever I wanted. It would break me, make me unable to live with myself. How would I ever be able to feel free again after that? If they found me, it was all over...
This large amount of fear was new to me, so much uncertainty about what could happen any moment. It should have petrified me, but did quite the opposite in actuality. It made me feel even more alive than ever, especially my fingers being far from petrified. At work, where I was usually a token of civility and virtue, they kept wandering between my legs, almost by themselves. Ready for that possibly last orgasm, knowing that, at any moment and through any door there could be policemen, the army, guards or whomever storming through to come and take me away. It made me feel like I was more than just a boring employee, more than just anyone, more than life. The glow I, apparently, emanated fiercely, caused some prattle around the office. But any questions in my direction were easily dissuaded or discarded by clever retorts and waves. It cost me quite some effort to keep my completely correct composure but I persevered.
The police didn't share that sentiment.
After a week, the realization set in that I had gotten away with it. Thoughts on that matter mostly revolved around the detectives finding all kinds of evidence in his room that would severely suggest his sexual stimulant and the obvious result. The papers made no mention of it either, which surprised me more than the lack of blue at my door. Perhaps they had ignored it because, all in all, it wasn't such an obvious or important death even though it probably made a good story, it might happen all the time. Just an uncommon night gone wrong or, in my case, gone right. However, this did not satisfy me in the least. For that, I delved into information about how crime was solved and what methods the police used. Apparently my haphazard method of using bleach to cover my tracks was surprisingly efficient. It destroyed human smells and most simple tracks with minimal effort and, so long as no clear fingerprints remained, it meant that the police had practically nothing to go on. Add to that my consistent wearing of wigs when I was out hunting and the care with which I had cleaned surfaces touched; There was indeed reason to be confident.
Of course I desired (or rather, needed) to know if I would feel the same again if a similar situation would occur. However, for that a subject was needed, which in turn was an interesting challenge. Most of all it was important that there was no connection between a prey and my social life. Next to that, I would have to make sure that they wouldn't be missed too easily after the deed. Anyone living with someone else would therefore be out, as they would notice a death within a day. It would be best if a death would stay unnoticed for a fairly long time. So, still living on the thrill of being hunted and setting up a new game for myself, two weeks passed deceptively easy. With nothing but my own inventiveness to satisfy my urges during that time. While I thought about finding a subject first, logic dictated that it was important to know everything about what I needed to kill one at the exact moment I wanted to. It had occurred to me that trying to cause death by strangling would hold several obstacles that weren't so easily overcome. The most obvious one being the lack of men with that particular fetish or willing to try it. No, what I needed was a fast, dead certain and relatively painless way for a man to perish, heightening the tension and intensity at the exact right moment. Relatively painless, since I didn't want a victim to make too much noise outside of the normal moans and screams of pleasure, that would ruin both my cover and my intentions. And, I guess, there was no need to make someone suffer needlessly. I wasn't that kind of girl. It didn't take too long for me to find the, in hindsight very obvious, fastest method to a man's heart. It was through the chest, with a sharp object.
This, however, was easier said than done. The heart is protected by a rather sturdy piece of chest-bone that was possible to pierce, but required both a decent blade and force. However, with a lot of background reading like usual, it was just a matter of time until ideal methods of stabbing from various positions were found. Then, for the weapon. Like all the other attributes I used to protect myself, variety being the spice of life, I decided to buy not one but many knives of various types. The common factor being of course a strong base, sharpened point and reasonable practical use. Basically any knife with a point would do, from any walk of life. All of them had practical uses in one way or other and wouldn't rouse any suspicion when bought separately throughout the city. It was more fun shopping than usual and very educational to boot. The owners of their respective stores were very forthcoming with the limitations of certain blades over others and of course in what situation to use them. The most important thing, I found, was to use knives that didn't retract or otherwise fold. It basically caused a structural weakness that meant the knife could give out at inopportune moments, and I didn't want that. Further talks about maintaining knives, buying wet-stones and other interesting bits of knowledge made it definitely one of the better evenings spent in a while. To practice with my small, but varied, collection of knives, I went to a forest. Each of the blades had a different weight, balance point and feel that I tested out by stabbing trees. It was even more fun when I found a recently cut down tree on the ground in an secluded area that I could mount and try my knives on. This brought me quite some pleasure, sitting on the log like it was a man, feeling the anticipation of doing it for real, the feeling of metal sliding into skin, combined with my hips grinding the rough bark. I tried not to moan too hard.
The rest of my 'kit' was created using house-hold items. A small towel to keep a bloodied knife in without spilling on the rest. A standard house-plant spray-bottle, filled with bleach water, small enough to fit in my handbag without being too obvious. It could, incidentally, unofficially double as a deterrent for overeager men, as getting bleach in your eyes isn't exactly very comfortable. Some other things I wanted to bring with me, like washing-up gloves and some scissors (you never know) completed my otherwise fairly normal set of accessories. Of course the standard make-up things were included, but I had to leave some things home for the rest not to stand out. Besides the knife, the bottle and perhaps the gloves, the kit could pass as normal every-day accessories. And, with this 'dangerous world we were living in' the knife could even be justified... Somewhat. After all of this, I felt it was time to try it out for real.
But not the first night.
The first night I took it all with me, was a night I knew I wasn't going to use it. I wanted the feeling of having it there, knowing I could use it at any time. It was a test to see if it could be carried around without anyone noticing. Of course, no one did. The sensation of having it there was amazing, the power it granted, the knowledge of having any man at my mercy. To take his lust, sanity and, eventually, his life. Seeing the world through pink glasses, no not pink, but dark red with coagulated blood. Everyone was a potential victim, every extremity cut off, But, I wasn't in it for the blood, not for the kill itself. It wasn't important that a guy, a lover, died. What mattered was that I felt alive, felt complete. It had already been three weeks with me being busy organizing it all, able to only buy things either at the weekend or in the evening and of course massive amounts of reading. I hadn't had a single intimate moment with someone else. One could say I was 'a little eager'.
It was quite crowded in town. I had chosen to go on Saturday for two reasons. It would allow me to drive quite far and see new places and subsequently stay much longer with anyone deserving of my attention. Now, I often get approached by men, even quite good-looking ones, trying to seduce me. But the man who approached me that night, a night in which (I should add), I was incredibly willing, was very different from what I would usually choose. Once I found out some of the details about him, I knew that it was with him that I was going to spend the night.
Not sleeping, obviously.
But, I should be honest, it wasn't just him that made it so interesting.