Such a nice girl she was, her favorite black dress with long straps, all that cleavage he liked, especially when she didn’t wear a bra. She told him she dressed just for him, her breasts all his, her sex his to own. And he did own it, just like she wanted him to, sometimes begging for it when he held out.

Sure, they met at a bar. She was a regular there and he had come on business. They hit it off soon and he found himself making arrangements more often, the jet fares adding up, but fuck if he cared. She was fiery and he liked it, how she’d tell him just how she felt about something, anything, and didn’t give a fuck what he thought, even if he disagreed or took offense. “Fuck you,” she’d say, and that would incite him; they’d attack each other with near rage and end up spooning.

She was perfect, he always thought.

Really.

He lost count of the stabs as he plunged the knife in her like a machine that chops up meat. He used her lace red panties to sop up her blood, the smell of it making him want to keep stabbing her, even though there really was nothing left to stab. She was now mangled beyond human recognition. He had stabbed her face, her eyes, her skull, her neck, her chest, her abdomen, her arms and hands and legs and feet – and then had turned her over and stabbed everywhere else that remained, so much virgin flesh ready for his blade. He saved her pussy for last and shoved the knife straight in, just like he imagined that cock she fucked it with so many times, thinking he never knew. Well, he knew. He caught her in the act itself. There was likely more than one cock. The lover was able to escape but he would get him later. She was the culprit, that lying mouth of hers, the same mouth that sucked so much cock behind his back. He slammed the knife in her now worthless cunt and twisted it around, fucking her, scraping inside her and spurting so much blood. Her panties were soaked soon enough. When he finished he filled them with parts of her cut-up flesh. She was now bloodied meat, and her panties, the same ones that fucking lover slid off of her, were just a flesh bag. Her face was horrid; it didn’t look like a face. He couldn’t find that mouth of hers now but just guessed where it had been, then stuffed the filled panties into her skull, part of which was cracked by his raging knife. He stood up and surveyed what he had done to her.

Such a nice girl she was.

By Jeff Callico