Saint and a Sinner
Copyright© 2005 by Daniellekitten
Erotica Sex Story: Prologue - Novel size story of a serial killer who terrorizes a small community and the detective and sheriff's deputy who hunt him.
The blade shimmered with life.
It glimmered in the gloomy darkness, light from the single bare bulb hanging from the low ceiling next to the stairs danced hypnotically off the eight inch long blade. It captured his whole attention, sucking him in, drawing him away from the slender naked figure cowering in the corner of the cold dark cellar.
It seemed to breathe, to talk to him. He ran a finger slowly along the back edge of the knife, caressing it while the knife spoke to him of venomous secrets.
It told him of his power. It explained to him his Purpose. It spoke to him of love and desire. It planned grandiose schemes that promised acceptance and respect that had never been his before the knife.
But mostly it commanded. It demanded to be fed, to drink deep of dark sweet blood, to bite of soft flesh, to chew on the richness of life and leave only death.
He whispered back to the knife as his fingers stroked the hand carved wooden handle.
"All for you," he whispered. "All and more," he laughed gutturally as the blade winked light back at him, agreeing in it's own silent way.
And then he scowled as it reflected the image of the girl he had oh so carefully chosen running up the stairs behind him. A deep, ugly growl escaped his throat and he turned to give chase, clumsily stumbling over the uneven dirt floor.
She was almost through the door of the fruit cellar, the door that he had forgotten to lock this time. She turned, seeing him rushing at her, almost on the top step. She tried to slam the door on him but he hit it hard with his shoulder. It jerked out of her hand and smashed against her, driving her across the rough grass, clods of wet soil tripping her. She fell with a bone jolting thud, her head snapping against a rock. Another larger one was under her, jamming into her back and bruising her kidneys. Her head jerked again, leaving a wet smear of blood against the rock. She struggled against the pain, fighting to stay alert even as it tried to swallow her whole.
She battled the encroaching darkness and the waves of dizziness that tried to engulf her. She struggled to get back up, to get away. The soft ground gave under her clawing hands, shifted under her digging feet. She slipped and felt consciousness waver again. She had to stay awake and fight or she was dead.
She saw him reach for her and tried to scream, a hoarse, croaking sound escaping through her swollen lips. She hit at his hand frantically and gasped as it wrapped around her throat picking her up as easily as if she were a feather. Her hands wrapped around his fingers, nails digging in as she choked, trying to pry them loose as black spots erupted in front of her eyes.
She had almost gotten away from him. It was sloppy, not locking the door behind him. Sloppiness wasn't allowed. It could get him killed. Worse, it could get him caught. She wasn't his first, he had practiced his trade, honed it to a fine edge that was just as sharp as the knife. He had gotten good at picking and choosing among the ranks of the sacrificial. He knew the ones that wouldn't be missed quickly, the ones that were the easiest to pluck out of the horde and make his own. It was easy. A gentle smile. A questioning look. A first innocent meeting.
He was lucky. The knife had told him so. He had found his Purpose in life. A Purpose he was good at it. And better yet, he liked it.
His attention was drawn back to the bloody, abused girl in his hands. He carried her by the throat back through the door and down the rickety basement steps. Her fingers were digging into his hands, nails drawing bloody furrows, her bare feet were kicking at his legs. He didn't feel it. All he felt was the pull of attraction to the knife. The pull to the power, the omnipotence of having control over life and death. He felt his Purpose.
Her struggles became weaker as her oxygen starved body started shutting down. She felt one of her nails tear down to the quick and didn't feel the pain. The fire in her lungs became unbearable as sparkling white lights exploded in front of her eyes. She was dying and there wasn't anything she could do. He was too big, too strong. And she hurt so badly.
A remote part of her mind was still thinking, still forming thought patterns, telling her how sad it was that there was no one that would miss her, no family, no real friends that would mourn her loss. She'd been on her own so long and had shunned other people, depending upon no one but herself. And she would die alone.
And then she was free, sinking down against the cold, damp dirt floor, her fingers against her throat as she coughed and gasped. Over the roaring in her ears she could hear his heavy footsteps going back up the stairs and she felt a small flare of hope that he was leaving. Maybe she would have one last chance to get away.
One last chance to get away from the monster who had held her for ten days, raping her without mercy, playing twisted games with her. He'd tied her to a table, tortured her mind. Beaten her body. He had taken pictures, taunted her with knives, cutting into her flesh. She was starved and weak, cold and in shock from pain and more. He'd taken abnormal pleasure in caressing her body, finding ways to arouse her with gentle touches that were far worse than the pain he inflicted.
And all she wanted to know was why? Why her? Why had he picked her? This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. This didn't happen to her, it only happened to stupid girls. The naive ones that didn't know better than to go with strange men, or answer their doors without knowing who was there. She wasn't like that. She knew better, didn't she?
But she was here, in this room. She hadn't been smarter or quicker or any of the other things she had always said she was. She'd been taken and abused. She'd been left tied like a dog. No the way she was tied was worse, exposed and open to whatever games he wanted to play. Tied to that table...
This time he hadn't tied her back up.
She lay where he'd left her, coughing and gasping in as much sweet air as her lungs could take. Breathing as deeply as her bruised and bloody throat would allow. He hadn't tied her back to that table. The thought swirled through her battered mind. Maybe? If he left now, maybe she could pry the door open. She swiveled her head around, staring at the plain room, at the old walls. Maybe she could dig her way out of the crumbling portion of wall that was close to coming down anyway. She could catch her breath and escape. Then she could lead someone back here. She could make him pay for what he had done. She felt hope, glittering, shiny hope swell. If he left...
Hope died and terror returned as he started back across the floor towards her, his knife shining almost as brightly as the evil smile that twisted features she had once before thought were so handsome.