I sip my cocktail at the bar and cross my legs, exposing them through the slit of my dress, waiting for him to notice.
He's been watching me, for a while now, eyeing my body, craving my sex, needing to have me as his own. He sits at the opposite side of the bar with a whiskey in hand, glimpsing at me from time to time as he briefly chats with a colleague, trying to be discreet. He's handsome, I have to admit, with his defined jaw, perfect scruff, full lips, styled hair, lean, muscular body…sexy, charming. And you can tell from five feet away that his scent is fresh, clean, musky even.
I presume he's in a predicament, having a difficult time coming up with a game plan to approach me, to get me, to fuck me. I can see him thinking, contemplating, wondering what he should do, how he should do it. I am the only woman sitting at the bar, wearing a short silver silk dress with heels, hair dangling down my bare back. I'm practically open and exposed for him, waiting for a man who hesitates to pursue a woman way out of his league. But like they say, to get the job done, you have to do it yourself.
And as a woman, I always have to do it myself.
I finish my cocktail, take the olive into my mouth and slide it off the stick with my teeth, and look right into his eyes, biting my bottom lip with intent. I pretend to blush when he doesn't look away, his jaw tensing in hunger, craving my lips, my curvy body.
Once I hear my favorite tune play through the speakers of the club, I look away, get up from the stool, and head to the dance floor without a glimpse in his direction. I begin to sway as I walk, roll my hips to the beat, noticing men drool in awe when passing by their egotistical selves, and then settle in the midst of the crowd, waving my arms in the air.
I dance with grace, my body moving seductively as possible, spinning around to find the man staring at me from the bar, moving a little closer to get a better view. I bring my hands to my hair this time, aware of his gaze, my head swaying back and forth to the bass, hips grinding against nothing but hot air and light wind. When I look over to the bar again, the man is gone. I smile with pride, attempt not to chuckle at myself.
He's now under my spell.
I start counting down from ten when I hear the rhythm increase, and then he's right behind me when I get to zero, his hands placed on my lower hips. I turn around to admire his incredible jaw line, chuckle when our eyes meet each other's as if his presence is unexpected, somewhat of a surprise to me. I act innocent, bring my arms up to circle around his neck, and let him take the lead.
I match his pace, my hips against his, his fingers controlling every movement of my body as they roll and grind to the beat. He swings me around so my back is against his chest, his wet lips pressing against my bare shoulder, dragging up to kiss and lick my neck while I sigh in the heated crowd. His palm grazes along my stomach, moving lower and lower so that my breath hitches to the sensation, leaning my head to the side as he bites and sucks my skin.
I moan when his mouth meets mine, swallowing his tongue and devouring his full lips, and he does the same, hungry, needy, as if he hasn't had a full meal in days. He tastes like liquor with a vanilla twist, and I can feel how much he craves for more than just my mouth, aching to sink his ego inside of me, needing to feel the tightness between my legs and make me beg for more.
I smile when the song ends, and turn around again to bring my lips to his ear, slowly licking the lobe. I ask if he wants to get out of here, if he wants some privacy. He nods like a desperate little boy, kissing me before leading me out of the club and into the passenger seat of his brand new car.
Such a good pet.
I play with him as he drives home, feel and rub his thick manhood so small talk would be limited. He tells me where he's from, what he does for living, complimenting me continuously as if I'm unaware of my worth. He barely asks questions about me, and frankly, I don't mind at all. I love listening to his husky voice anyway, needing to know what it would sound like if he moans between my legs as he eats, groans as he finishes.
I lick his neck while he drives, wanting him hard for me, making sure he'll bulge out of his pants when he steps out of the car. I tease him a little as well, raise my dress up to my upper thighs, spread my legs wide, let the straps fall off my shoulder to reveal my cleavage, even a nipple. Ha! Look at him, he's dying with lust, starving for my sex. He firmly grips the steering wheel, knuckles white, and his eyes are dark and lucid, focused. I love teasing men like this, making them drool and salivate, on their knees just for me. It's an interesting concept; the power of a woman's body. You can make men do anything if you know how to use it.
We get to a cute little house on a hill, decent and blue, almost as if a white picket fence should be around it. He parks, helps me get out of the car like an actual gentleman, and unlocks his front door. The decor of his home is subtle, clean, and of course, rich; hard wood kitchen floors, white carpet, marble counters, glass coffee tables. It's quite typical for someone who's humble about his wealth, and I've met wealthy arrogant men, been in much bigger homes than this.
I follow him to the kitchen, and watch him take out a bottle of his most expensive red wine, his favorite wine, and two wine glasses. He pours the perfect proportion of it into the two glasses, and then hands me one of them with a wink. He sips his with a satisfying smile, and talks about something I can care less about.
I laugh at his humor, caress his ego, and then set my untouched glass down on the coffee table, watching him down the substance until his glass is empty. He notices my actions, closing the distance between us, setting his glass down next to mine. He's about to kiss me again, pouting his lips, breathing heavily, but I stop him, whispering the word bedroom against them. He smiles, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth before I turn around and walk towards stairs near the front, letting my body do its job from behind.
He follows closely, his eyes distracted by my curves as I walk up the stairs, heading to what looks like the master bedroom. Before I can reach the bed, however, I stand in the darkness, feeling his chest against my back, his hands in front of my body. He kisses my neck as his fingers graze up one side of my dress to expose my upper thigh. He teases them, feeling my inner thighs, and I moan when he cups the spot between my legs. His other hand wraps solely around my throat, making me shudder and gasp in pleasure, needing it rough, erotic. And I let myself enjoy it, let myself love the way his fingers move, circle, pump, slap and how my body reacts. I want to scream so badly, needing more than just fingers and kisses on my skin. I wish he can take me against the wall and make me beg for mercy until he releases inside me, until I become undone. But I can't.
That's unfortunately not part of the job.
I told him to get on the bed once I almost feel myself reach ecstasy. He releases me and does so without hesitation, immediately removing his shirt in the process.
Good boy.
I straddle his hips on the mattress, his bulge now constricting within his pants as I feel him underneath me. I begin licking his neck down to his olive-toned chest, grazing my fingernails along his skin, making him groan my name and curse these thin white walls. I move against him so he won't notice my facial features, reactions, unaware that I'm bored by these actions and movements, unfazed by his pleasure.
And then it happens.
He begins to clear his throat, as if a stone has been shoved down his chords. His eyebrows furrow, suddenly confused. He places his hand around his neck, and then starts coughing…slowly at first, as if he's got a cold, and then excessively, becoming rough, hoarse, maddening. I get off of him, smiling at his struggle, his little artistic strife. He looks at me with wide eyes, desiring to speak but unable to do so.
Thank God.
He's losing the ability to breathe.
He reaches for me, and I quickly get off the bed before he can grip my arm, aching to be helped. He's choking now, grasping his throat, unable to breathe, fighting for air, dying like he deserved to. His choking sounds are becoming joyous to my ears, loving the sounds men make when they choke. It's honestly my favorite tune, admiring the veins that develop on their necks, the redness on their weak faces, the tears in their terrifying eyes. He then falls off the bed and I casually step away, hearing a bone crack, titling my head to watch his body vigorously shake on the floor. White, bubbling pus flows out of his mouth, and I stare in awe, wondering how beautiful it would be if I sliced his perfect throat with a butcher knife while he looked into my eyes, his thick, juicy blood splattering all over my face, staining these hands.
He finally stops once I imagine it, his body limp, still, his eyes lifeless, and dead.
Before I can jump for joy, the bedroom light turns on.
"You enjoyed that a little too much!" my boyfriend says.
I turn around and see him in the corner behind the bedroom door, casually sitting in a blue lounge chair next to the closet. His white button-up shirt is painted in dried dark blood, and a knife is jabbed into the cushion of the arm chair.
I smile, "Oh did I?"
He gets up from the chair, and embraces me, kissing me passionately, tugging and sucking on my lips, caressing the inner corners of my mouth with his soft, delicious tongue. If I could kiss him all day, I fucking would.
"What took you so long?" he gently sucks my neck until I bruise.
"You know how men can be. I had to get him wrapped around my little fucking finger," I kiss him again once he's done marking my skin, "where's the wife?"
He smiles, goes to the closet, and pushes the door open with his foot. There, the man's wife falls to the ground face forward, landing with a thud. There are multiple stab wounds through and through her abdomen, throat destroyed, flesh ripped apart.
"You had fun with her, I see?" I laugh.
"Oh, I had a great time," he smiles, "'My husband is coming, he loves me.' I tried telling her he was fucking multiple women, including her best friends but…she didn't believe me, the only man that made her scream."
Suddenly, I hear the front door open from downstairs.
"Hello?" a woman says, "Ethan?"
"Fuck, that must be Jessica, one of Ethan's girlfriends," he whispers.
"Another one?" I sigh, "should we turn off the lights?"
He shakes his head, "No, I got this one. Don't worry, honey."
We hear Jessica walk up the stairs, her footsteps quietly creaking against the wood.
"Ethan?" she asks, "are you up there? Your door was unlocked so I came in. Hello?"
She walks quietly into the bedroom and right when she sees Ethan's limp body, my boyfriend comes up from behind her, covering her mouth before she can stifle a scream.
"You weren't supposed to see that, baby," he says.
He snaps her neck in one swift motion, and immediately, her body collapses, her mouth agape.
I gasp in arousal, and he looks at me, the Devil appearing in his eyes, desire running through his veins.
"I fucking love you," I smile, biting my bottom lip, pulling him towards me so he can roughly devour me.
"I fucking love you," he says before picking me up and wrapping my legs around his waist.
We fucked downstairs on the kitchen table, next to the wine bottle he poisoned for me, aware of the bodies we murdered, the rich people we slaughtered.
My job here is done.