A Love Story (Not to be read if easily disturbed)

She's not drunk, but she's getting there.  She's at the bar with friends.  They have found guys.  She has not, but one's found her.

He buys her a drink.  They talk.  Small shit.  Weather.  Sports.  Movies.  She likes him.  He's got a nice smile.  Soon she's telling him all the stuff she doesn't like about herself.  Weight.  Job.  Hair.  Guys just want to fuck.

He assures her.  Tells her all she wants to hear.  She's pretty.  Nice hair.  Her weight is fine. 

She doesn't have to say it because it's obvious.  She'll go home with him.  She'll go all out, too.  Do stuff she normally doesn't do.  She doesn't quite know why.  She wants to impress him.  She wants to prove her worth.

He will not stop her.

They make more small talk at his place.  She admires the artwork.  He says he's the artist.  She's impressed.  It is, in a word, awkward.  They don't even know each other's last names, but she is about to let him take her any way he wants.  She's done this before, but there is always that time period right before they hit the bedroom where she doesn't know quite what to say.  How to make the transition.  He keeps telling her how attractive she is, and she has had enough to drink to believe it, but it still doesn't feel right.  He's not pawing her.  He's not making crude comments about her breasts.

Oh.  She gets it.  He's a gentleman.

Yes, he'll still fuck her within three hours of meeting, but he won't be rude about it. 

So they do what people do in that situation.  Condoms are used.  She shows off her oral skills.  He compliments her on them.  And then, as they are lounging in the afterglow of mutually satisfying orgasms, he says three magic little words.  Words every female in this situation longs to hear until she realizes what it means.

"It's not over."

What she takes it to mean is that there is another session heading her way.  She hopes he'll be on top this time.  She's tired, and the drink is going to her head.

What he means, however, is that this isn't over, and those hands of his, the ones that caressed her breasts just right, find themselves wrapped around her throat.  Tight.  Very.  Tight.

The next morning starts as every other morning for him.  The garbage truck is on its way, so he quickly takes the trash out.  Her cell phone is in there.  He read once that some phones have GPS chips in them, and that they can be traced.  That would not do.  When she is found she needs to be miles from his house and in pieces.  Right now she is intact and in his tub.  That will not do.

He goes back in.  Makes coffee.  His hands are no longer shaking.  Hours ago, though, when he was cleaning up, he had a panic attack.  His hands wouldn't stop shaking.  He couldn't even lift the body to get her off the sheets.  The blood would soon attract flies, and he wanted her in a place where he could wash her off.

What blood is left in her body has collected in her buttocks.  Lowest point of her body right now.  He doesn't like the coloring.  Like a bruise.  One big bruise.

He examines her breasts.  He finds it amazing that the bite marks almost look like an animal got at her.  He was growling when he did it, so maybe he was an animal. 

The nipples.  They were nice.  He will grant her that.  She had nice nipples.  A Bic lighter fixed that.  Now they are curiously charred.

He will wash her, drain the rest of the blood, strip the meat from the bones.  Save some.  Bury some.  Grind the bones down.  That is not fun.

"It's not over."

"Really?" she asks.

"I hope not," he tells her. 

"You want to go out again?"

"I would like to."

She smiles at him and plays with his hair.  A nice guy who wants to go out for a second date even after she fucked him?  Maybe there were some good guys left.  Maybe this was one.  He had a good tongue, too. 

"Okay.  Saturday?"

He nods.  "I'll buy you dinner.  We'll kind of go at this in reverse now."

She laughs at his joke.  Actually finds it funny.

"Saturday dinner then."  She tells him she likes Italian.

"You can stay the night," he says.

She does, and he watches her sleep for over an hour.  For those seventy-three minutes he runs the same fantasy over and over in his head.  The choking.  The cutting.  The disposing of the phone.  The lighter.  Her screams.  He is erect again, and at one point he has to make a concentrated effort to keep his hands from her throat.  It is so inviting.  So white.

She wakes up.  "What are you looking at?"

"You.  Sleeping.  You look peaceful."

She smiles that sleepy smile guys are lucky enough to see.  It's a lazy smile, but honest.  "Thanks."

He smiles back.  It is strained.  She doesn't notice.

"Normally, I'd be creeped out by that," she admits.  "You are safe, though."

"Safe like butter," he replies.  She doesn't know what it means.  He doesn't either.  It just came out.  He has to be more careful.

Her eyes close again.  "Like butter," she mumbles, snuggling close to him.

He sniffs her hair.  Pleasant.  Shampoo.  Sweat.   He wonders what her earlobes will taste like.

Right before he sleeps, he smiles, too.  She's gonna be easy ...

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