Alan Catlin

The Lamia

“A man who’s drinking is always dreaming
about a man who’ll listen.”

Kamel Daoud, The Meursault Investigation

The men she hung with all had
the scent of failure, half-baked on
alcohol and self-defeat, simply
waiting for someone to turn up
the flame, someone like her, who
would gladly supply the match.
A few dates with her and they were
inextricably joined at the hip like
sick Siamese twins or hosts to
parasites, drunk driving home from
bars as if it were a new kind of
On-the-road full contact sport
anyone with a BAC of 2.0 and above
could play. Despite a diet of Budweiser
and red wine, she remained lean
and wiry, only slightly withered
around the edges where skin met
bone as if she’d been left out in the rain
too long and dried off in a gale force
wind. Sunbathing topless pictures
of her were conversation pieces
along the bar all the regulars
tired to fake enthusiasm for, though
mostly they could have cared less,
felt the snaps were meant more as
relationship auditions than titillation
knowing her current man was a bottle or
two short of being used up and returned
for recycling or for the deposit, if she
could get one. Some guys compared
her to a vampire in clogs who might last
for centuries or until someone drove
a stake through her heart for the good
of all mankind. it was likely that would
happen anytime soon but it should.

G.P. DeSalvo

After the Meteor Shower

We set the collapsible table up in the garage. Our house was 175 years old and the garage was a cave of pink insulation and fifty pound salt bags (for the water softener).  It was haphazardly connected to the slat board shack where we slept and fought.  The night before the picnic, dad moved the Buick, our two rabbits and the tractor so we could sweep the place out.  We were so busy we missed the meteor shower.

The next day it was ugly hot, air so damp like breathing water.  I was sweating in my party suit.  Why did I wear this?

When I went to stir the bean dip, there was this enormous cockroach looking bug that was the typical color… like super-tanned hide, with a waxy sheen. Then, another thing appeared: a combination slug/turtle with the same exoskeleton.  It surfaced, shell first, in the chilé con queso, tilted back revealing its soft underbelly, and, from its behind, sprayed a viscous yellow fluid across the gingham table cloth.

Neither mom nor dad were anywhere to be found.  All the people arriving, that I thought I knew, were strangers of the most simple and needy variety.

As I prepared to start gathering things up, dulled by the lame horror creeping in my synapses and the doddering party attendees, I saw the “insects” outside: through the window in the garage.  Fat, pulsing larvae with wet green eyes and veined wings.  They swarmed in clouds clicking against the siding like sleet, splattering kamikaze on the windows.  There were so many of them, they snuffed the sun.  Now they were flying in, pinging off the guests, falling in the baked beans, dying in the Jello Pudding.  I was distracted by something else at that point.  I kept thinking, I need to immediately throw away all this food because there was no salvaging it; the creatures were dying, squirting and multiplying among the pot luck offerings faster than I could stumble across the oil-stained garage floor.

What is everyone going to eat?  A picnic isn’t a picnic without food.

I slipped on the nasty things three times, almost hitting my head on the picnic table bench as I scurried, responding to the conditions and questions from people I no longer recognized yet who seemed to know everything.  That is, everything except for where my parents where.

Overwhelmed, I ran around trying to act normal as possible while trying desperately to distract everyone from the increasingly grotesque environment. I belted an acapella version of One Direction’s ‘Bring Me Down’ while I dumped uneaten food, crockery and all, into the trash can.  As the fourth Pyrex dish of vermin riddled picnic food disappeared with a thud and a sharp crack into the plastic container, I noticed several homunculoid creatures (also with waxen flesh. but more ostensibly human) shivering in out-of-the-way places… as if they were consciously hiding, waiting for their opportunity to do… whatever.  One in particular was a larger half-formed ‘male’ dragging his misshapen torso and impotent legs around using heavily veined and sinewed arms.  The abomination was maybe a foot and a half long, its face a shrunken-head-mask consumed by grin: the hands claws.  When it moved, it left jellied blood streaks on the pavement.  When it noticed me noticing it with its one pus filled eye, it shambled under our tool bench at the far end of the garage as quickly as it could.  Which wasn’t very quickly at all.

I thought, “I have to kill these things.  I can kill the ones that have heads, and even the ones that don’t, by hitting them with a shovel.”  The shovel is always the go-to answer, isn’t it?   The best way to kill any slow-moving or maimed thing in the garage or backyard.  Shovel or hoe.  To avoid the splatter and mess, my solution was to open the rear door.  It was insane, considering this allowed more of the things to enter that way.  Nothing was leaving; the space was filling.  But, in my disordered thinking, maybe the chaos of the garage would be too much and, at least, the larger things would seek escape outside.  Then, I could follow and relentlessly smash… as many of them as I could… to death.

John Grochalski

fear and loathing at the hibachi restaurant

the suburban goth girl
with the blue hair
and purple eyeshadow
didn’t know you could refuse the side salad
so it sits there coagulating
under the hot lights
as the blonde at the table next to us
drunkenly shouts across the room to her pals
something about ruining her new shoes
from dropping some of her third drink on them
something about her husband’s birthday
and the president being close to god
she’s had three sexy ladies tonight
and if she doesn’t vomit
she says there might be room for a fourth
and
wink
wink
a special surprise for hubby when they get home
as everyone around her
laughs and laughs
doing the puritan end-of-the-work-week rage
and i wonder what a goth girl
with blue hair and purple eyeshadow
is doing in a hibachi restaurant
on a friday night
other than tilting the perfect picture
making things a tad askew
contributing another food waste in wasteful america
but this big, dumb colossus of stolen land
is full of surprises
and growing up in small cities
breeds a kind of useless rebellion
and plastic discontent
that can only be found at the mall
you can make mountains out of molehills
in the knowing light the chain store’s come-hither stare
i wonder what i’m doing here
hundreds of miles from home
anchoring the dead weight of citizenry
unnecessarily sober at a hibachi restaurant
stuck inside of buffalo, new york
with the brooklyn blues again
coming off a panic attack on the i-81
where i couldn’t breathe
and had to pull the car over to the side of the road
as idiot patriots with bumper sticker prophesies
zipped by me
going 90 in a 65
but across from me the hibachi chef
he knows my fate
he’s squirting sake into the mouths of babes
red faced business men
with their necks too fat for their oxfords
frat boys with their hats on backwards
greasing up their dates
for their own patriarchal surprise later
a sea of jaws undulating, filling up with all of that booze
spilling out of their mouths onto the table
because people can never get enough
of the free stuff
the chef asks me if i want a taste
i want to tell him that i think anxiety is just another word for america
i want to tell him that i’m thinking art is dead
how i’m ready to capitulate
move to the burbs
buy a car and complain about the traffic
hoist that fucking flag every morning
learn to live for the weekend
and how to love parades
each a hibachi dinner with my wife and good pals
each and every single friday night
buy the boss a christmas gift
and learn how to change a flat tire
burn all of my books
and walt whitman in effigy
at a neighborhood weenie roast
but i say no
and go back to my flat beer
keeping my flat opinions to myself
as he squirts some oil on the grill
and sets our world ablaze
with a flame that reaches almost to the roof
red and yellow and orange
tickling our fancy
we ooh and awe like cavemen in discovery’s first light
catching broccoli in our mouths
from an expert flip
huffing and huffing
at its heat
filming it all on our cell phones
as dead meat fries and sizzles
as sexy lady number four is presented to the table
to claps and chants
and soft debauchery
as the blonde woman screams and screams and screams
her useless constitution
and hubby knows
that
wink
wink
will just be her passing out again
as he circle jerks the witching hour
toggling between espn and fox news and internet porn
while back here on hibachi mother earth
a mountain of crystal white onion on the grill
burns like a tire fire
from a fizzled-out riot
in an abandoned strip mall
parking lot
of the mind

and to be perfectly honest with you
…i didn’t eat my goddamned side salad either

Marc Blackie

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Marc Blackie is a English photographer and filmmaker, whose often controversial work has been described as “Bergmanesque Erotica” & “Jarringly combining eroticism with the uncomfortable and sinister” by the New York Magazine and, less eloquently perhaps, as “if created by David Lynch with a Hard-on”.

His photographs and films convey an ever-so-slightly queasy interpretation of the erotic imagination, via a variety of sexual scenarios and surrealistically charged visions, displaying no small degree of cynicism towards their subject matter and imbued with a laconic wit.

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After following a successful career as a photographer, exhibiting Worldwide, including Paris, Rome, London, New York and more, Blackie turned his attention to the medium of cinema and has to date produced over twenty films.

His last project “Fucking Doesn’t Help” premiered at Vienna’s Atelier Theatre and went on to win the “Best Experimental Film” award at the 2017 Hong Kong Third Culture film festival and Nick Knight’s ShowStudio has recently featured his two film collaborations with Tessa Kuragi, “Adoration” and “Sometimes, My Body Betrays Me”.

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Blackie’s work is unashamedly unrestrained. Comparisons are as likely to be drawn from Buñuel’s “Un Chien Andalou” as from tropes to be found in contemporary pornography or an unnerving dream one can’t quite shake. This has lead to film screenings being halted by the British Council and an occasional hostile reception to his work from audiences, but Blackie’s work continues to push boundaries and challenge preconceived notions of desire, lust and the ridiculousness of the human libido.

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He still continues to pursue an interest in photography, though the short films are now his greatest passion.

He has also produced a number of music videos whilst pursuing a vocation as a cinematographer and writer and currently lives in London, with a variety of emotional issues as they take up less room than cats.

More of Marc’s work can be viewed below:

http://www.disappointedvirginity.com

 

Rhonda Parrish

Grampa Got Bit

There’s a board on the pole for his feet
but the damned things are never still;
always running mid-air marathons.
He lost a shoe in the corn stalks,
kicked it off one day, I reckon.
He keeps the birds away, though,
his gnashing teeth and flailing limbs
far more effective than any man
stuffed with straw

Hang In There, by John D Robinson

HIT

Hang In There, by John D Robinson
126 pages
Uncollected Press

“John D Robinson’s stark and honest poetry pulls no punches and gives zero fucks. This impressive collection will take you on a journey through the good times and the bad, and does not gloss over or glorify anything – John simply tells it like he sees it, and that in itself is a breath of fresh air in the world of carefully curated, phoney personas that we live in today.”

— Martin Appleby, Poet and Publisher: Paper and Ink Zine

PayPal $15 plus P&P to johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk
to order now

Me and Sal Paradise, by Charles Rammelkamp

ME AND SAL PARADISE COVER BY GENE MCCORMICK

Me and Sal Paradise, by Charles Rammelkamp
56 pages

FutureCycle Press

Ah, youth! Charles Rammelkamp’s ME AND SAL PARADISE is a poetic tale of the hitchhiking adventures of a young man in his early twenties. It’s the early 1970s, when Jack Kerouac’s influenced America’s youth with his romantic tales of cross-country adventures by car. One sequence of poems illuminates a 1971 hitchhiking adventure from the Midwest to Montreal and back, a pair of friends crossing Canada and New York state. Another sequence relates the solo adventures the following summer, also originating in the Midwest, of the author who this time heads to San Francisco, where his twin brother is living in the famed Haight-Asbury district. Through these journeys, we contemplate with the narrator the meanings of youth, friendship, and inevitably personal destiny.

PREVIEW/PURCHASE HERE

Joseph Farley

The Nature of Flings

As god is my witness
I’ve never been
with anyone
with a body
as hot as yours,
though several came close.
Too bad we will soon
hate each other.
That’s part of the equation,
the balance to all this
love we’re making.
Hate. It grows slow at first,
but grow it does
until it can walk across the room
and pour itself a drink.

Kevin J. Kennedy

A Little Bitch

As Rebecca left the apartment she had one last look around to make sure she had wiped down everything she had touched then closed the door behind her. Her heart racing, she felt an overwhelming sense of euphoria that most people never got to experience in this life.

She walked down the hallway of the little apartment block, keeping her head down in case there were any security cameras. The only noise was the click of her heels. She always made sure that she left her victims homes after most other people would be in bed. It minimized the risk of anyone remembering seeing her when they were later questioned. She wasn’t the type of girl that people forgot easily. Standing at five feet ten inches tall, with a slim but curvy figure most men couldn’t scrape their eyes off of her. Her long wavy red hair cascaded down her back and it was a rare occasion when she wasn’t dressed to attract attention.

Rebecca knew she could be a lot more discreet in her appearance but she was a predator and her looks were exactly what attracted the right kind of victim. Even in modern day, men were still incapable of clear thought after she flashed them a slither of her panties or let them have a sneaky peak at a nipple. She liked to watch the change in their persona as they went from hoping they would get laid to the cocky assumption that they were onto a sure thing. She didn’t consider herself a man hater but she did believe that men were the lesser species and had grown to believe she was doing society a favour by weeding out the weak. That wasn’t why she did it of course.

At an early age Rebecca’s sexual wanting grew quickly. She came from a deeply religious family and had been brought up to be a lady. It had never worked. Even as a young girl she was always getting into trouble for one thing or another but it all got out of hand when she turned eighteen. She was one of the few girls she knew that still held onto her virginity. She had lost count of the amount of guys that she had let eat her out and she had sucked a fair amount of dick even though it wasn’t as much fun as letting them eat her. The main reason she hadn’t let anyone fuck her was solely fear. She knew if it got back to her parents she would get kicked out of the house and as much as she would have preferred to live on her own, she had nowhere else to go. The last thing she wanted was to end up a single mum, living in a slum on welfare.

When Rebecca decided it was time to go for it and deal with whatever consequences may arise, she chose Derek from the school football team. He had been trying to get into her pants for a while and she knew he had already slept with a few girls from the school so hoped he would know what he was doing. Like many youthful encounters it had ended in disaster. Derek had picked her up at 8pm as planned and taken her straight to a seedy motel. She had believed they would go for dinner or the movies first but it wasn’t to be. As they entered the room she was further surprised to see it was just a dirty old room. No roses, no chocolates, no small gift, nothing to make her feel special. Her heart had sunk as low as it could go but never the less, her mind was made up to go through with it. Her virginity was starting to feel like an anchor that was weighing her down.

Deciding to put aside her hurt feelings she wrapped her arms around Derek and kissed him on the lips. His hand rose to her chest and softly pushed her back.

“Calm down babe. There will be time for all that. Let’s get wasted first,” Derek, told her.

It was at this point that she realised Derek had been into the room already and left some things for them. Drink, a pack of smokes and a small amount of weed. She could feel the fury building inside her but pushed it down, knowing she had come here to do a job, even if it was with a guy that was turning out to be more of a dick than she had known.

Derek jumped onto the worn out bed and pulled the tab on a can of beer.

“Grab yourself one babe.”

He grabbed the remote from the bedside table and flicked on the TV.

“Score! Can’t beat an Arnie movie,” he said, without even looking at her.

Over the next few hours, Rebecca sat and watched as Derek drank ten cans to her two, while flipping from one shitty movie to another. She had a few draws from each joint he rolled but was still feeling reasonable clear headed as he started to fumble with her breasts. The fool couldn’t even get her bra off so she helped him. A few minutes later and he was pushing her back onto the bed and pulling her panties off her ankles roughly. After uselessly thrusting his semi against her vagina for a few minutes she offered to blow him. Ten minutes of sucking later and it was just about hard enough to slide it in. His penis was small and the feeling was minimal, even though it was her first time. She was no stranger to a dildo though and her own was twice the size of Derek’s minute prick. When he started grunting a minute into the shambolic fuck, she almost screamed at him in rage. His body lay on her, crushing the breath from her for a few minutes before he started to push himself up with a lopsided grin on his face.

“Sorry babe. Don’t know what happened there. I usually last ages,” was all she got from him. No kiss, no, thank you, that was amazing. Not even a fucking kiss on the lips.

“Is that fucking it?” came her angered response.

“What the fuck you wanting? You wanted fucked. I fucked you. If you are looking for romance you’re with the wrong guy honey.”

“Romance? I’m not looking for romance but I barely felt a thing. Do you think you even lasted a minute?” What the fuck?” Rebecca asked, as her temper began to go.

Until that point, Derek’s actions had been slow and subdued but in a flash he was up off the bed, completely naked and had his hand wrapped around her throat, pinning her to the wall.

“Listen you little bitch, if you tell anyone about this, you’ll regret it. I fucking mean it!” Derek said and then loosened his grip.

Rebecca couldn’t remember a time when she had felt such rage. Who did this cunt think he was, putting his fucking hands on her? She look to her right and then her left and lifted the old vase from the table and brought it crashing down over Derek’s scull as he walked back towards the bed. He went down like a sack of potatoes. The vase shattered to pieces but didn’t make too much noise then the room was quiet. The first thing Rebecca thought about was what if someone came to the room’s door but then she realised that in flee bag motels like this, no one bothered with anyone else’s business. Half of the rooms were taken by people who lived here year round and didn’t care about life anymore, never mind what others got up to. She was also confident that Derek wouldn’t have booked the room using his own name.

After a few minutes, with no one coming to the door she went to check Derek. She crouched down, still entirely naked and felt exhilarated as she felt for a pulse. It was weak but he was still alive. She smiled to herself. Here as this great hulk of a football player and she had taken him down with ease. She couldn’t lie to herself, she was feeling great. She had never felt such a sense of power. Her mind started to wander what would happen when he woke up. Would he hurt her? Would he tell his parents who were rich beyond words and who could cause her major problems? Would he tell everyone and completely destroy her reputation? She couldn’t think of a scenario where they both came out of it unscathed. No way was she letting her whole reputation be destroyed for 60 seconds of supposed pleasure. Fuck that!

Standing up from next to Derek she went to her overnight bag. She pulled out the one of the spare plastic bags she had in the side compartment and started to gather up the empty cans. She couldn’t remember which ones she had touched so she took them all. Next she picked the joint roaches out of the ashtray and put them in the bag too. She knew she hadn’t touched much but decided she would give the place a wipe down before she left, knowing they always did that in the movies. Once the room looked exactly as it did before they had entered it she put all the rubbish into her overnight bag to dispose of later.

Derek still lay passed out of the floor. He hadn’t moved a muscle. The blood from his head wound had started to dry into the carpet and the flow seemed to have stopped. She could see he was still breathing but doubted he was going to wake back up. Then, an idea came to her.

Kneeling down next to him, she took his smallish dick between her fingers and started to rub it. To her surprise, it started to harden.

“It’s true what they say. Men have no control over this shit.”

She pulled his legs out straight, swung her long, shapely, left leg over his legs and sat straddling him just below his cock. She spat on her hand and rubbed the saliva into his cock. Not that she thought she would need it. She couldn’t remember the last time she had gotten so wet. Raising her hips she positioned herself over his disappointing member and slipped down into it. Even with its small size she felt it spread her slightly as she started to rock. This time the sensations started to tear through her body straight away. Derek managed to last longer than two pumps and a squirt this time as well but she realised that what was making it so hot was the fact that he was passed out cold and she had complete control. She began to ride him harder, pushing her hips down onto his. She bit her soft bottom lip as the orgasms started to rack her body. It wasn’t until the orgasm subsided that she realised that she had begun slapping his jaw as she came. As she stepped off of Derek she realised that he hadn’t come at all this time. She wondered if being passed out or potentially seriously injured allowed for the dick to get hard but there wasn’t enough there to make them ejaculate. Not that she gave a fuck. He hadn’t been trying to bring her any pleasure.

“You should always make sure you leave your lady satisfied,” she told him with a smirk as she used the panties she took off to wipe her pussy dry. She flung them in the bag alongside everything else. She quickly slipped her tartan pleated skirt back on then pulled her tight white t-shirt over her head. She decided against putting her bra back on so it went in the bag too. She carried the bag and her heels to the door and placed them next to it. Looking around everything seemed to be taken care of. She searched around the room wondering what she could use for a weapon before deciding the heavy porcelain lid from the cistern of the toilet would work just fine. She carried it back into the room and looked Derek over again. He hadn’t moved. She sat the toilet lid against the bed and took her panties from her bag. She used them to wipe his dick clean of her juices and threw them back into her bag. She then picked the cistern lid back up, lifted if overhead and brought it crashing down on Derek’s scull. Both lid and scull cracked. A low moan escaped Derek’s lips but she wondered if it was just the last of his air escaping. She then took a towel and wiped everywhere that she may have touched and shoved the towel into her bag. That was eleven years ago now and Rebecca had never looked back. She liked to be in charge. She also realised later that she can’t orgasm if the man is a awake. She had tried various fetishes over the years like chocking the guy out and then riding them but nothing worked. To achieve any sort of orgasmic bliss, her man had to be knocked clean out and ideally on the way to his grave.

Years of finding guys that wouldn’t be missed coupled with disposing of bodies and honing her skill set to evade capture had become a full time job but luckily she had never had to work thanks to the money and items she often robbed from her victims. Rebecca had kept almost no contact with her family since she left town. The police had questioned her after Derek’s body was found. He had told a few of his friends that he was going to fuck her that night and they had told the police. Rebecca has told them that she had chickened out of going to meet him because she knew he was only looking for one thing and that she was a good Catholic girl. Her family was well known in town and attended the same church as both the judge and the chief of police which seemed to be enough for her to be removed from any suspects list. There was very little crime in their town and the police department just weren’t equipped to do any real kind of investigation but also still operated under a ‘they could handle everything themselves’ way of working. Rebecca had hung around for six months after the murder before leaving. She didn’t tell her parents. They would have caused a fuss. She had taken the small amount in her savings account, hopped on a train and left, never to return. It was rare that Rebecca would settle anywhere for too long in fear of becoming a suspect in any of the crimes she committed.

As the years passed by, it began to dawn on her that she was a serial killer. She had never thought of herself as such. Often she would consider herself a sexual killer. She knew it was for the thrill that only came from fucking a dying victim. It wasn’t really the actual killing part that got her off. It was the power. This allowed her to kill different victims in different ways so that they weren’t linked together. She had never been charged with a crime in her life so there were no law enforcement departments with any knowledge of her. She started to read more about other serial killers. There were so many books on the subject. She learned that sex tied into various killers crimes in one way or another so in that she wasn’t alone. She didn’t however keep any mementos from any of her victims or eat parts of their bodies. She found that to be extremely sick. What she did realise though in the early years after she left town was that the gratification lessened with each kill. After a few disappointing fucks she had begun to up the ante and look for new ways to torment her victims. What had previously been a case of knocking them out, tying them up and riding them became finding somewhere secluded to take them, a little torture, a little sex and then repeat. She had kept a few of them alive for days. Riding them until her legs gave out and her thighs were covered in her pussy juice then having a rest before beginning a new method of torture. Again, she got no real pleasure from the torture part. It was just necessary. She loved when they begged. Even if they were gagged she could still tell when they tried to reason with her. The gags never came off. She had no interest in what they had to say. Seeing them in a state of helplessness and despair was enough to keep her soaking as she slipped herself back onto their cocks. That was the thing. No matter how many times she tortured them, she still managed to get their cock hard again with relative ease. With a few of them she had to go home and return in one of the various costumes she acquired. Some guys had tastes that meant they only got hard for a nurse or a school girl or some other type of kink. It made no difference to her. One way or another she would keep them hard and fuck them until they died.

Rebecca’s clean up technique improved with each kill and she knew that there was almost nothing to link her to the men she used and disposed of. There was always the possibility of someone having seen her with them but mostly, within a day or two she moved onto the next town. She bought old phones from second hand stores and used pay-as-you-go to top up so there were no links to her. She set up new emails in each town and joined whatever dating app the locals used. It never took her more than a few hours to line up a fuck.

Halloween was always a favourite time of year for Rebecca. She had always enjoyed dressing up and it meant she could make her victim turn up in in silly costumes which tickled her for some reason. She often reasoned it was just another element of control that she had. Over the last few years she had even started to decorate the room she planned to take them like a murder scene from a horror movie. Not one of the idiots had questioned it. Each had happily strolled into their death room, assuming that she was a Halloween nut and impressed by the effort she had gone to. Almost none of them even questioned when she told them to lay down and began tying them to the bed. Each had believed they were in for the best sexual experience of their life. She always played it up online, telling them all the things she would do to them that their wives and girlfriends just wouldn’t do. She had learned early that to turn a man into putty in your hands, all you really had to do was tell him he could put it in your ass. After that compliance was a given. The other various acts that she would describe to them online were just for her. She imagined them sitting there, cocks rock solid, more than likely having a wank. The fact that they didn’t realise that they were effectively wanking over their death kept her pussy dripping until the actual event.

It had been years since Rebecca had masturbated. In the early days a few toys had managed to get her off but as she got deeper into the serial killer life, she became numb to all forms of sexual stimulation that came from anything other than a dying man. She had told herself that if she hit a stage where she had killed fifty men that she had probably come as far as she could and would stop it all before she got caught but she had passed an eighty man death toll now and was still going strong. If anything she found that she was losing any sense of reality she once carried and wanted to spend all day every day fucking to exquisite orgasms. She read more and more books about serial killers, learning how they were caught and what mistakes they made to make sure she didn’t fall into the same trap but the more she killed the more her thirst grew. Some days she felt like her pussy was trying to bite her leg off. While the kills became more frequent, as did the town moves, the need grew quicker. She began to realise that most of the killers who had been caught must have gone through something similar and that they probably hadn’t been caught through stupidity but instead through an inability to control an insatiable hunger.

As the years passed by Rebecca asserted as much control as she could over her circumstances but as the body count rose and her knowledge of other serial killers grew, she realised that she would never get caught. It wasn’t because she was the best or that luck was on her side. It wasn’t that she had come up with an infallible plan. The more she thought about it, the more she was sure. They would never catch her. Why? Because men are fucking stupid and their brains are in their dicks.

She was right. Rebecca died at the age of seventy four, never having been caught. She died between the bodies of two dying men, thirty years her junior. Each was tied over a table with their asses sticking out towards her. One was directly in front of her pussy and the other was behind her in ass to ass fashion. She wore two strap-ons. The front one that fed through the front of her panties slotted nicely into her pussy. The other was on back to front and stuck out from her ass. As she rocked back and forward, a strap-on slipped from one as the other buried into the other ass and then she’d rock back. It was a move she had found online called a Bosnian Seesaw. While she got no real pleasure from the actual act, she found it to be extremely degrading which help set the moment. She had planned to turn one of the men over and ride him until she could no longer walk but as her hips thrust back and forth; her heart gave out on her. She died lying on the back of one guy with her strap-on buried deep inside him while the tip of the other rested just inside the other guy’s ass. If she could have seen herself she would have been more than happy with how she went.