The Hunter
Marva Dasef
He glanced up and down the dark street and saw no one. Shrugging the overcoat's collar higher up his neck, he slipped into the alleyway's shadows. Once hidden from prying eyes, he took the mask from his pocket and put it on, adjusting it to ensure that he could see without interference. He leaned back against the rough brick wall. And waited.
His thoughts wandered to the delights he would soon partake. The wide-eyed fear, the mouth gaping open to scream just as he crushed the lips against the teeth. Blood flowing between his fingers would be a pleasing touch. He mused about some kind of wrapping with sharp edges for his hands, perhaps gloves with barbed wire. Embedded glass would be too difficult to attach.
The sharp rap of high heels broke his reverie and he pressed closer to the shadowed wall.
Yes, tight skirt practically exposing her buttocks, low-cut blouse plunging down to her artificially enhanced cleavage. Just what he wanted. And, so soon. A bonus.
He stepped forward and with practiced ease wrapped his arm around her neck and pushed his palm against the bright red lips. The struggle was good. She writhed, and he could hear her rasping as she tried to breathe around his hand. Three fingers across the mouth with thumb and forefinger pinching her nostrils shut. He'd worked long and hard to make this move work every time. The effort paid off as he felt her heaving body pressed against his.
Closed his eyes and shuddered. Too soon, too soon. Gritting his teeth to slow his pounding pulse and quiet his lust, he dragged the near limp body deeper into the dark alley. Holding still, he waited for the chest to quit heaving, seeking air. He laid the body down, almost tenderly and drew the scalpel from its hiding place. Slipping its edge under the top button of her blouse, with a twitch of his wrist, the button flew away into the darkness.
Work slowly, he thought, no need to rush. Savor every moment. He sighed. It took so little time these days. He was too practiced at his art. Maybe something different. Should he start at the bottom, just for variety's sake?
Kneeling beside her, he looked down her legs to her feet. Smooth. White. Red toenails. Perfect. He lifted the edge of the short skirt, exposing lacy red panties. Crotchless. How crude.
Using the scalpel with finesse, he sliced open the skirt and the panties exposing her shaved pubes. He imagined her dressed in a schoolgirl outfit. Plaid skirt and a white blouse. He sighed.
Pressing the scalpel down just above her slit, he started to cut upwards on her soft belly.
An arm wrapped around his neck and snapped his head backwards. Twisting to look down at the whore's face, he couldn't quite make it out. She was no longer lying flat on the ground; she was sitting up with a strong forearm strangling him.
He dropped the scalpel and tried to raise his hands, hoping that would be enough for her to let him go, to run away. Instead, she pulled him up and his feet no longer touched the filthy cement of the alley. Held up by his neck, he gasped trying to draw air into his lungs. The grip on his neck was too tight. Lack of air turned his vision red as his eyes bulged. The last thing he heard was a howl close by his ear. A howl that would turn blood cold, a howl calling a pack to fresh meat.
Marva Dasef is a writer living in the Pacific Northwest. Having wasted huge amounts of her life working in the software industry, she's finally getting a chance to settle in and write fiction for the fun of it. She's far too along in years to bother with her academic credentials, but notes that she attended Bedrock U. the same year as Fred Flintstone. Her first writings may still be preserved in a cave in France between the drawing of the cave bear and the hand outline. Her stories have been published in a variety of ezine markets. This is yet one more.