5 comments/ 9628 views/ 2 favorites The Ghost Writer By: pinata Disclaimer: This is a horror story, and in horror stories people die. There are a couple of scenes of violence that may shock or disturb some readers. Viewer discretion is advised. * All right. First off, I suppose I should tell you a little about myself. I'm an author. I used to be a struggling author, but that was before I met her. Now I'm a multimillionaire, though I'd trade all the money in a second for my youth back. I still have my youth, you might protest. After all, my Wikipedia entry says I'm only 31, and my TV Tropes entry doesn't contradict that. As online sources go, those are pretty damned reliable ones. But the pictures on those pages were taken when I was 27. And I already looked 31 then. Now? Now I look like Robert Loggia. She still says she loves me, though. Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn't even notice what she's done to me. She doesn't know I'm writing this. If she did, she would probably kill me. She's killed other people, I just can't prove it. Why stay with her? Because she's the most beautiful woman that ever existed. I don't care if you're banging Rose Freakin' Byrne right now as you read this, Kaitlyn is still hotter than your girl. Makes a guy willing to put up with a lot. The second reason is because I owe all my success to her. As corny as it sounds, she's literally my muse. I think that's actually her function, along with what I think of as draining the life force of her victims... she inspires them creatively. And I'd like to keep on writing until she finally grows tired of me and finishes me off. I love writing. If anything, it's the only thing I love more than her. The third reason is because she's not human. I didn't realize this until it was too late, and by that point in time the first two reasons had made me fall in love with her. All right, let's go back to the beginning so that this makes more sense. I was 26 years old, and about a year and a half ago I had published my first novel. It had peaked at Number 4 on the Bestseller List, making the publishing company millions of dollars and me personally a little over half a million. Everybody was, of course, very happy. Until, that is, the well dried up. I had no ideas left for a second novel, and a short story in progress that had also stalled out. Well, two short stories in progress if you counted the one I was writing just for me... but that was an erotic fantasy about my editor's wife Crystal, and if it ever saw the light of day I'd probably have to run for my life. I'm not even sure I could get away with posting it on Literotica without him finding out about it. So there I was, even my agent turning against me (the other day, he referred to me as 'dead weight' while I was standing right there in the room). Only my research assistant, Sabrina, still had my back, and I suspect that she had a crush on me. That might even explain why she suggested that we do what we wound up doing. So you can see, even though it is rather stereotypically Irish of me, why I turned to drink. And that was when the real trouble started, for it was in a bar that I met her. She sat right next to me, which was strange in and of itself. Beautiful women don't sit next to me. They sit next to handsome, athletic men with the brains and personality of a pair of used boxer shorts. She ordered a shot of Bailey's and a pint of Guinness Stout in a beautiful Irish lilt. An authentic Celt, unlike me. I'm just half-Irish on my mother's side. She glanced over at me for just a split second, her green eyes twinkling as if they contained actual emeralds. They were the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. "Put his drinks on my tab," she said as she turned back toward the bartender. He glared at me with a look that said 'You lucky bastard', then shrugged and did as he was told. "I'm sorry. Did I hear you right?" I asked her. It was best to make sure... I was starting on my second bottle of Captain Morgan's. For all I knew I might even be hallucinating her. "I'm buying your drinks," she said, enunciating very carefully. "Sorry, my accent trips people up sometimes." "Not me. I think you have a lovely voice." "Oh, thank you. You're very sweet. I'm Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn O'Meara." "Danny. Danny Sheehan." She smiled, and I knew she was thinking what everybody else thought when they put my first name together with an Irish last name. But I also had a feeling that if I heard 'Danny Boy' one more time, it wouldn't sound bad at all coming from her full, red lips (I later started to suspect that the red was a naturally occurring color, rather than the result of lipstick). She uncrossed her legs briefly, allowing me what I thought would be a mildly teasing glance up her short skirt. She wasn't wearing any panties, and her pussy was completely hairless (once again, a naturally occurring condition) with puffy lips that flared invitingly and a glisteningly wet slit that seemed to be begging me to lick it. She recrossed her legs while her emerald eyes twinkled knowingly at me. Her little black dress hugged her body tightly and exposed enough cleavage that nearly half of each big, perky breast was revealed. Her slender legs seemed to go on forever, and were exposed slightly past mid-thigh by the minidress. We chatted for a while, and during the conversation she started casually touching me. She never went anywhere near my dick, but her hands still managed to bring my dick to life. It grew painfully hard, constricted by my pants and boxers as it was. I confessed my writer's block to her, gesturing to the still-empty notepad in front of me (the one I took everywhere, just in case I needed to write down an idea for a book), and she said, "I think I can help you with that." Then she leaned forward, and her lips touched mine. While I kissed her back, I caught the bartender's glare intensifying out of the corner of my eye. After she broke the kiss, I said, "I'm not quite sure how that helped, but I appreciate it all the same." She handed me a ballpoint pen. I kept it... I still have it in my inner jacket pocket. It was my lucky pen there for a while, though I now believe it to be cursed. At any rate, the ideas -- and quite a few of them were really good ideas -- flew forth from this pen almost the moment it touched my hand. I filled up that whole notepad, and I still had a couple of other ideas I hadn't had a chance to write down yet bouncing through my head. "How the fuck did you do that?" I said. "I don't know. I guess I'm your muse." She smiled coyly. "Unless you don't believe in that kind of thing." My first published work had been a horror story, and I had followed that up with a novel-length fantasy epic. I probably -- from a purely karmic standpoint -- couldn't afford to admit that I didn't believe in that kind of thing, even if my beliefs were firmly certain at that point in my young life (which, as is the case with most young people, they weren't). "I think we're no longer welcome here," I said instead, nodding in the bartender's direction. She smiled, but this one seemed almost predatory. "Let's go back to my place, then," she said, standing up. She turned away from me and bent down to retrieve her purse from the empty barstool next to her, making sure to bend far enough that her skirt rode up and temporarily revealed her perfect ass. It was big and round enough for 'baby got back' status, but firm and toned rather than flabby. Then she straightened, and it seemed that she led me out of the bar rather than the other way around. She acted as if I was her arm candy, even though anyone who looked at us could instantly tell that she was so far out of my league we weren't even playing the same sport. Maybe that was why the bartender had seemed so jealous... he wasn't Brad Pitt or anything, but he was slightly better-looking than me, and probably thought he had more of a legitimate shot with her. Maybe he should have been an author instead. By the time we got back to her place, after making out passionately in the back of a taxi on the ride home (I got my hands up her skirt and fingered her to what felt from her reaction like a pretty good orgasm, but I hadn't gotten to cum yet), my cock was not only the hardest it's ever been but steadily leaking precum. I remember being worried it would stick to my boxers and skin would be torn off of it when I stripped. After the door of the house closed behind us, she removed her dress in one smooth, fluid motion and stood before me naked. I felt my balls tighten, and was unable to stop my first load from spraying on the inside of my boxers. Fortunately, I was able to get it up again after a few minutes (while I was waiting I licked her pussy and gave her another orgasm, much more powerful than the one she had had in the cab; she tasted wonderful) and actually enjoy her body. She didn't mention the premature ejaculation. I assumed it probably happened to her a lot. We fucked off and on for most of the night. I don't think that any other woman has made me feel the way she did. All of her holes were tighter, warmer and wetter than anything I had ever experienced before, and extremely sensitive to stimulation... even when I came in her mouth, it triggered a small orgasm in her as well. Eventually, I was fucked out and passed out next to her while she was fingering herself to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, she was gone. If not for the fact that I was still at her place, the black pudding on the stove (she had actually made me breakfast), and the note on the nightstand thanking me for a lovely time last night, I would have thought I hallucinated the whole thing. After finishing breakfast, I put my clothes back on and headed back to my place. I wrote nonstop for the rest of the day, finally turning in at three in the morning after having finished two short stories and about three-quarters of my next novel. The next day the writer's block set in again, but I had submitted the short stories to the appropriate periodicals for publication and given the publishing company some pages from the novel I had nearly finished so everyone would at least be off my fucking back for a week or two. I tried to get some serious writing done, gave up, turned to my stroke story about the editor's wife, and gave up on that too after getting only a couple of lines written. That night, a knock came at the door. It was a bit late for visitors, so I answered the door wearily, replica of Lurtz the Uruk-hai's sword (from the Lord of the Rings films, for those not nerdy enough to get the reference) in hand just in case this was a home invasion or something (most burglars would think twice about robbing some psycho who answers the door with a sword). It was her. She was wearing a black leather bustier and a miniskirt so skimpy it might as well have been a pair of panties. Her perfect legs were encased in fishnet stockings tonight, and looked even lovelier than I remembered them. We didn't bother with words... our bodies did the talking just fine. The sex was even better this time than it had been before, almost like an addictive drug that makes you feel better each time you take it in order to increase your dependency on it (that was, I realized later, pretty much exactly what she was doing to me). We experimented with positions that we hadn't gotten to try the other night, getting somewhat kinkier, and at the end of our tryst she even fulfilled one of my greatest fantasies by letting me cum on her face, something no other girl had ever let me do before. Just like the last time, when I awoke the next morning she was gone. I wrote all day again, finishing the novel I had gotten mostly through two days ago and churning out a second one in its entirety as well as finishing the short story about my editor's wife Crystal. Weeks passed with the same routine, her visiting me off and on and always curing another bout of writer's block, before I found the first white hair on my head. It weirded me out a little bit... I wasn't even 30, I shouldn't have white hair! But I didn't think much about it one way or the other until a second white hair appeared a week later, and then a third a couple of days after that. I was learning more about my ancestral homeland, perhaps due to the fact that Kaitlyn had piqued my curiosity, with the help of my research assistant Sabrina (who was much better at the fact-finding stuff than me, and willing to do loads of it). It was her who found out what Kaitlyn was. She came to me with an old Celtic legend she had uncovered, from back in the olden days before Peter Pan when fairies were still badass. The story she had found was about a creature called the Leanan Sidhe (pronounced lanawn shee), which immediately fascinated me because of its similarities to Kaitlyn. The story said that the Leanan Sidhe was a muse that attached herself to writers, poets, painters... pretty much any artistic type would do. She inspired creative energy, and in a weird form of vampiric symbiosis she then fed on that creative energy. The legend of the Leanan Sidhe apparently had its roots in fairy folklore, meaning that Kaitlyn may or may not have been a fairy. As I thought about what I already knew about fairies, I figured some things out. First off, the reason I never saw Kaitlyn during the day was because, like the fairies in the movie Don't Be Afraid of the Dark, she was nocturnal and hated bright light. Second, like the fairies in my own stories she was ageless, and never grew any body hair below the neckline (this was the first time I thought of her sweet pussy as being naturally hairless rather than shaved). I started researching the legend more, leaning on Sabrina for help occasionally, and started to realize that if I was right about Kaitlyn, she was going to kill me eventually... the Leanan Sidhe myth appeared to have been created as an explanation for why all the Gaelic poets died young. I worked out different ways to get her out of my life, and Sabrina finally suggested the one I first tried. "Make her fall out of love with you," she said. "How the hell do I do that? I don't even know how she fell in love with me." "Well, there's one way that usually works." She raised an eyebrow suggestively. "Cheat on her?" I asked, raising my own eyebrows in surprise. "Even if I wanted to, it's not like I could just pull a willing girl out of my ass." "Are you that fucking blind?" she said irritably. When I didn't respond immediately -- to tell the truth, this was the first time I had thought about her in that way and I was caught off guard a bit -- she grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me. After Kaitlyn, I had thought that no other woman could make me feel any sort of truly intense passion. But Sabrina was an excellent kisser, and I found myself eagerly tongue-wrestling her after less than a minute. Two minutes in, we had pulled each other's shirts off and I was undoing her bra while she fumbled with my pants trying to pull out my rapidly hardening cock. I wondered, as we undressed and I entered her tight, wet hole, why I hadn't thought to do this with her before... now that I had truly looked at her as a woman, I realized she was extremely attractive (granted, not quite the goddess that Kaitlyn was, but gorgeous by any human standard). Her dark brown hair, while not as long or shiny as Kaitlyn's jet-black tresses, was still pretty, and her big brown eyes were downright adorable, especially when she put on her reading glasses. Her slender, petite body benefited from regular exercise and just the right amount of freckles adorning her otherwise smooth and unblemished cream-colored skin, and her athletic legs and toned ass would have been the envy of any woman. Only her breasts made her noticeably different from Kaitlyn... they were 32Bs, what would be considered 'flat' by many men. I thought they were fine; anything larger would have looked too big on her thin frame, for one thing. For another thing, her nipples were extremely sensitive, and I made her cum just by sucking and licking them, without even going down south yet. It was a huge turn-on to be with a girl so passionate that she could orgasm just from titplay. And then when I fucked her, and she came almost nonstop over and over again the entire time, it felt like heaven. We were enjoying it so much we didn't stop after I shot my first load... it turned into a marathon fucking session like I had with Kaitlyn. Before our stamina started flagging, I had shot three loads inside her pussy, two inside her ass, one in her mouth and one on her tits (she wouldn't let me cum on her face). She told me she loved me, then went back home. I was expecting another visit from Kaitlyn that night, but she never came. I wrote a couple pages of my next novel and the details of my encounter with Sabrina just in case it would make good erotica, then I hit a creative wall. Apparently, sex with Sabrina wasn't quite as inspiring as sex with Kaitlyn, even though it had felt nearly as good. With no late-night writing to do, I turned in early. I was awakened shortly after dawn by an earsplitting shriek right outside my house. I quickly threw some clothes on and hurried downstairs to find my housekeeper, Yolanda, standing -- no, more like wobbling -- by the pool. She looked like she was going to faint, so I grabbed her to hold her steady. Then I saw what she had seen. The water in the pool was no longer blue. It had turned red from the blood of the nude female corpse floating facedown in it. I recognized the butterfly tattoo on the left asscheek. The body was Sabrina's. There was a slight current in the pool... enough to flip the body over without either of us touching it. There was no stopping Yolanda from fainting this time, and I wished I could join her. Sabrina's face was gone. The flesh had been gouged out, in some places so deep that you could see bone. Her torso had been ripped open as well, and it looked like most of the organs and viscera had been removed. After vomiting what felt like a week's worth of meals into the pool, I called the police. I would apologize for contaminating their crime scene when they got there. The conversation with the detectives is still a blur. I think I was in shock... I don't even remember their names. It occurred to me only after they left that Kaitlyn had killed Sabrina. She visited that night. I almost didn't answer the door, but when I looked through the peephole (that's right, I could afford a place with a peephole now), I saw that once again her outfit was skimpier. It would be a stretch to call this particular little black dress a negligee, as little as it covered. "Hey there, sexy. Ready to party?" she asked, her eyes twinkling playfully. "No." She tried to slip around me and get inside, but I blocked her entry. "No? What the bloody hell do you mean, no?" Now the twinkle in her eyes had been replaced by a steely glint. She was pissed. Good. "I mean I'm not ready to party. I lost a dear friend today. I'm mourning her." "Oh, you're upset about that? That cunt had it coming. Now let me in!" She tried to push past me again. I pushed back this time, shoving her back out onto the porch. "No," I repeated, more forcefully than before. She raised her hand to push me back, and we both looked at it in surprise. It had contorted well beyond the traditional human shape, and where there had once been perfectly manicured red-lacquered fingernails there were now curved claws with razor-sharp tips, each about five inches in length. She recovered from the shock of her apparently involuntary transformation first. "You don't say no to me, you sodding wanker," she said, pointing at me angrily with one of those lethal-looking claws. "You'd be nothing without me. I made you, and I can unmake you too. Just like I unmade that bitch." The Ghost Writer Her meaning was pretty clear... let her in, or die. I chose to live. Sue me. "Here are the rules, since you apparently need them explained to you," she said. "When I come over, I expect you to fuck me as long, as hard and as many times as I want. Each time you refuse me, I'll kill someone you love. Tell anybody what I really am, and I'll kill them to keep them quiet. Fuck another girl besides me, and I'll kill her like I did that whore Sabrina." She paused, raising her clawed hand and pressing it to her chest. "And just in case you're thinking you can kill me instead, allow me to give you a demonstration." The clawed hand plunged inside her chest, and pulled something back out. I saw with horror that it was her heart, still beating. She held it out toward me mockingly as I watched with even greater horror while a new heart grew inside her chest. Her wound closed over it. "We fairies are harder to kill than you stupid humans could even conceive," she sneered. Then she pulled her dress over her head and stood before me naked, waiting for me to fuck her. I gave it to her harder than usual, putting all of my anger over Sabrina's death into the act. When I fucked her in the ass, I made her bleed. Far from working the way I had intended, somehow the pain seemed to make her enjoy it more. She came loudly and enthusiastically. She moved in a few days later. Yolanda followed. This turned out to be a mistake... even though there was no temptation on my part to fuck the fifty-something and slightly overweight Guatemalan woman, she was still a superstitious Guatemalan woman who didn't trust Kaitlyn as far as she could throw her. She seemed to know what Kaitlyn was on some level, although her term for it was 'El Diablo' rather than Leanan Sidhe. One day, I got home from winning a Hugo Award to find Kaitlyn sitting in the kitchen, wearing only a thong, picking pieces of Yolanda out of her teeth with a long, slender claw. Apparently, the maid had gone too far in her disrespectful behavior. Kaitlyn made me fuck her right there in the same room as the body. Then she made me get rid of Yolanda's corpse, too. I started looking for a new housekeeper the next day. A few days after I found the new housekeeper -- a white girl with no accent who had been raised in a liberal atheist household, though I made sure she was also roughly the same age and size as Yolanda so Kaitlyn wouldn't suspect her of being involved with me -- my new agent, Jimmy (I had fired the asshole who called me dead weight), came over with two models. Needless to say -- I did use the word models -- they were attractive. The one Jimmy was trying to hook me up with even looked a little like Kaitlyn... pale skin, black hair, long legs, curves in all the right places. Kaitlyn would have killed her right then and there had she been home, but the sun was still shining brightly. And I still had no idea where Kaitlyn went during the daylight hours. That thought almost caused me to say yes to Jimmy's offer and fuck that model silly. But it was followed by the realization that Kaitlyn had somehow known what I did with Sabrina. "Get them out of here," I said. "Dude, come on. Don't be such a nerd. Your girlfriend will never know. She's not even home!" "I'm not interested," I told him flatly. "Oh yeah? Then why are you practically drooling all over Joy's tits?" I had no reply to that. "Come on, man. Accept your reward. You've earned it," he continued. "Look, I don't want this. Accept your reward for being a good agent and take both of them home with you." His eyes lit up at the prospect, and a few minutes later he and the girls were gone. Joy, for her part, looked grateful... I didn't blame her. I wasn't as good-looking as I used to be, though my hair still hadn't turned completely white and there were only a couple of noticeable lines on my face. Kaitlyn didn't come back home that night. The next day, there was news coverage of a fatal car accident... Jimmy had gone and parked himself under an eighteen-wheeler. A woman's severed head had been found near the car too, but police were still searching for the rest of her body. Kaitlyn had a telltale scar around her neck when she came home the next night. It had healed by the time I finished fucking her. I never found out whether she killed the models or not. To be completely honest, I didn't want to know any more about her activities than I absolutely had to by that point in time. We got married the next year. Kaitlyn, ever the exhibitionist, wore a backless gown with a piece of fabric cut out in front to reveal part of her breasts... a cleavage window, so to speak. A slit up the side revealed most of one leg, too. For my part, I could still fill out a tux pretty well... my face was aging, but my body didn't seem to be. Not on the outside, anyway... on the inside there were the usual old-man problems. I was having to get my prostate checked, among other things. Crystal, my editor's wife, came over to me at the reception. "I am so jealous," she said. "Thank you," I told her. "I'm very flattered." Even more so in that gown... she looked even hotter than usual that day. Her red hair was done up in a fancy braided ponytail, and her strapless gown bared just the right amount of flesh. Her big tits poked out at the fabric a bit, and the dress didn't even have to stretch all that much to provide cleavage. She giggled. "Actually, I meant that I'm jealous of you for getting to sleep with Kaitlyn," she said. "She makes me want to go back to my college days of wild lesbian experimentation." I nearly dropped my champagne glass. She gave me a knowing smile and said, "Put that in your next story about me." I had posted my story about her on Literotica a couple years ago, figuring if Kaitlyn was going to kill me anyway there was no reason not to antagonize her husband Kevin. But I had no idea she would read it. It turned me on a little, knowing she had apparently enjoyed reading my fantasies about her. I fucked Kaitlyn extra hard that night, giving her a wedding night she would never forget. I was starting to realize that her body got younger as mine got older. That night, her pussy even seemed tighter. A few weeks passed, uneventfully except for frequent fucking sessions with Kaitlyn (her pussy was indeed getting tighter, there was no disputing it now) and a couple more bestsellers from the brilliant mind of Danny Sheehan. I might as well have been Stephen King, as good as the publishing company was treating me now. That made my editor Kevin's visit even more surprising. I was in my study writing my next book, completely unaware that anyone was approaching the house. It was early evening, the sun not quite completely down yet... Kaitlyn wasn't due back for another 15 minutes, maybe even half an hour. It was the gunshots that alerted me that somebody was in the backyard first. This was followed by a woman screaming and the sound of shattering glass. I hurried out into the main living area of the house to find Kevin striding through the shattered sliding glass door on the side of the house by the swimming pool, gun in hand. "Jesus, Kevin. You could have just fucking knocked," I said. "Always the funny guy, aren't you, Danny Boy?" he said. "Did you tell my wife jokes while you were fucking her?" "Kevin, stop this!" Crystal said, entering the house the same way her husband had. "I swear, nothing happened between us!" He smacked her in the face with the butt of his gun. "Shut up, bitch!" When she straightened, blood was trickling out of her mouth. Gun or not, I wanted to rip his fucking face off. But I forced calmness into my voice. "What do you want, Kevin?" "I want to know what you did with my wife. What rooms you fucked her in, how many times, which holes. You're good at those kinds of details, I read what she was fingering herself to. Does she swallow your cum? I could never get her to swallow." "Kevin, it was just a fucking story. A fantasy I made up. I never touched your wife." "What if I don't believe you?" "Then shoot me." "Don't think I won't do it," he said, his hand remarkably steady as he held the gun on me. I could detect only a slight tremor. "Don't think I give a fuck one way or the other," I replied coldly. The last of the sunlight disappeared below the horizon, and as the moon started to rise it lit the waters of the swimming pool. They were no longer still, but rippling suspiciously. "Kevin, don't!" Crystal pleaded helplessly. Tears were streaming down her bruised and swollen face now. "Didn't I tell you to stay out of this, bitch?" he snarled, turning the gun on her. When he swiveled toward her, he turned his back on the swimming pool entirely... when he fired the gun, Crystal was too busy hurling herself out of the way to notice anything else. I was the only one who saw Kaitlyn emerging from the pool. She was a vision of perfection, wearing only a black slingshot bikini that had to be the skimpiest swimsuit I had ever seen. The only part of her breasts it really covered was the nipples, it was so tight at the crotch that her pussy lips were on display for all to see, and in back it went so far up her ass that it would be easy -- if not for the shoulder straps -- for someone standing behind her to think she was naked. As Kevin adjusted his aim and Crystal scurried around the room looking for a hiding place, Kaitlyn strode calmly through the hole in the glass door and into the house. Her fist slammed into Kevin's back, then erupted through his chest. Her claws were out. The gun fell from his hand with a loud clatter. He half-turned, but didn't get any further than that. It was the first time I had ever seen Kaitlyn's true form in all its distinct lack of glory. The gray-skinned, clawed monstrosity in the slingshot bikini raised an ugly, oversized head, filled with ugly, oversized teeth, and bit Kevin's head clean off. I shit my pants, but have no idea whether it was due to horror or old age. Crystal was shrieking in terror now, her cries piercing the young night. The Leanan Sidhe retracted her fist from Kevin's headless body and let it fall, splattering blood all over the floor. Crystal was running now. She made it just outside the hole in the door before Kaitlyn snapped her head around. The Leanan Sidhe's hair whipped out and tangled around Crystal's waist, and she gave an agonized screech of pain. I saw blood pattering on the concrete around the swimming pool in a rapidly increasing amount. Then I saw the upper half of Crystal's body separate from her legs, which managed to advance a single step before realizing they no longer had a body to support and collapsing to the deck. Kaitlyn dragged Crystal's torso, trailing intestines, back into the house. "Get her legs," she told me. I heard a telltale crunching sound behind me as I went to follow Kaitlyn's instructions, and knew that she was eating Crystal. Police responded to the shots, but we had cleaned up everything except for the hole in the door by the time they got there. Kaitlyn did something to them, fucking with their minds somehow to prevent them seeing the damage. Every time I saw her, that girl revealed a new power (of course, the fact that she was still wearing the slingshot bikini and their eyes were firmly on her most of the time might have had something to do with them missing such an important detail as well). But I thought I knew how to beat her. Kaitlyn liked to be spanked. I had found this out on accident the night Sabrina's body was found, when I had first started getting rough with her. I had wondered ever since then whether she might let me tie her up, and if so what advantage I might be able to take from that. It finally occurred to me a couple of nights after my 31st birthday party. I purchased a large quantity of horse tranquilizer and fixed Kaitlyn a drink with it. When she arrived a few minutes later, I had a drink with her -- making sure the glass with the horse tranquilizer was in her hand rather than mine -- and then broached the subject of bondage with her. She actually seemed rather enthusiastic, and once she was naked I bound her hands to the headboard of my bed and her feet to the bedposts (she was flexible enough that stretching her legs out to the sides like this didn't even hurt her). I went down on her for the last time -- as bad as she was, she still tasted great, and I wanted one last lick -- and then we fucked a few times before she drifted off to sleep. The first time I entered her, I tore through what was unquestionably a hymen... she had reversed her age to the point where she had regained her virginity. After she fell asleep, I checked to make sure her bonds were as secure as I could make them, then opened the blinds. I slept on the floor that night. I awoke at dawn to the sound of her agonized shrieking. "Top o' the mornin' to ya, bitch!" I said as I watched the sun melt off her perfect skin while she thrashed and squirmed. Each time her flesh melted off enough to expose an internal organ, it exploded as soon as the sunlight hit it. Lungs, liver, heart... all of it went off spectacularly, like fireworks filled with blood, painting the room red. Right before her heart went, she turned to me. Her face had melted completely off, depriving her of any beauty she had once had and making her look like the hideous creature she actually was. "Please, stop this! I love you!" she said. "Well, I don't love you, you evil cunt," I replied coldly as I watched her skull peel away and her brain explode. I sat down at the computer to finish this very story, setting up the last scene... Kaitlyn's death. But then my left arm started acting funny. Before long, it was completely numb. And I realize now that the last scene of this story will not be Kaitlyn's death, but my own. I am having a stroke. When the housekeeper arrives this afternoon, nobody will be left alive inside the house. It's surprisingly easy to make peace with that.