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If you are one of the weak at heart or a person with a weak stomach, I would not reccomend reading this story. It contains the themes of sadistic murder, rape, and sodomy. It's not too edgy for a lot of people, but some of you (especially a lot of you females in Alabama) should probably avoid this.
With that in mind... Enjoy.
The Day the Music Died
I really did love her. Before you read this, I'd like to make that perfectly clear. But it was she, not I, that violated that love. It was she who brought this upon herself; not I. She carved that hole in her stomach. She broke her own ribs. She did it through me. So please, don't hate me. Understand that it was she who did this; not I.
I had known of her infidelity for some time now. Two months. Two months in which every second pried at the fingers that held so tightly to the edge of my sanity. And finally my last ounce of reason was stolen away from me by her detachment. I began to imagine killing her. I shoved it aside at first. But soon I began to daydream. And those daydreams crept into my bed at night and molested my dreams. It wasn't long until I was infatuated with the idea of killing her as brutally as I possibly could. I was a maniac. And I liked it.
I worked a full-time job and took night classes three times a week. I would have been out of college in a few months. But at this point, that was no longer important to me. All my childhood dreams had been pushed aside by this fascination with death. Her death. I had first met her while playing with my band at a bar downtown one Saturday night. She had fallen in love with my guitar. Not me; my guitar. An old Telecaster that my father had passed down to me. I had spent every dollar I could save to perfect it. And it was perfect. But that guitar was soon to serve a greater purpose.
She expected me to be at my class that Friday night. 11 PM. The moon was full. I was hidden in the coat closet, weapon in hand. In the truck outside I had ropes, shovels, that old guitar; my plan was flawless
I had used a welding rod to burn the tips of my fingers a few weeks ago. No prints. The pain was nothing to me. To any man not bent on destruction, the pain of actually burning the fingerprints off one's fingers would have been agonizing, as it took hours and my fingers ached with pain for days and days after. But every inch of me was filled with the lust of destruction. I had purchased a brand new pair of boots which were to be disposed of immediately after the deed was done. The weapon I would kill the man with was a rope, tied perfectly for the occasion. When he opened the closet to retrieve his coat, I would wrap the rope around his neck and strangle him to death. His body would be dissolved by the acids in a special cement I had bought to make a patio last summer. I had plenty left over in the shed behind the house. And it was his truck that would deliver us to the scene. The truck would then be driven off a nearby cliff, giving the illusion that he had committed suicide. In reality, I would be his killer, his Grim Reaper, and his body would be a puddle of acid in a forest where no one would find him.
I heard them coming down the stairs. Giggling. Let them be happy. It wouldn't last long. The knob to the closet door turned. I was hidden in the shadows. He stepped in, reaching for his coat, and I immediately wrapped the rope around his neck and pulled him to the floor. I heard her scream. Crack. His neck was broken. I grabbed her, hitting her in the back of the head just above the nape of the neck. She fainted. Perfect. I turned him onto his back, just in case blood exited his mouth. He was dead, alright. His keys were in his pocket. Mine now. I ran into my room and grabbed more rope and duct tape. I tied my unconscious lover's hands together, along with her feet, and taped her mouth shut. She wasn't getting away.
I carried the man's dead body deep into the woods. I knew where the kids four-wheeled back here. Always on trails. But I carried him into brush. I carried him to a place that I had picked out weeks ago. I had already brought the cement. I found the three bags I had left from building my patio, and I drenched his dead body in the watered-down minerals and acids. By morning his body would be dissolved into nothing, and no one would have any evidence of his death, for there would be no body to find. But I was going to have my fun.
I had brought along a hatchet. The edges were sharp enough to chop through bone. And they did. For almost an hour I hacked away at him, making his once beautiful speicmen of a male body into a pile of red flesh and entrails. With every stroke, as my blade chopped through his flesh and bone, the noises made me laugh in delight. This was beautiful. The pure insanity of hacking through him, turning him into something so ugly and disgusting that no woman would ever want to touch him again -- that was beauty.
I poured the last bag of cement over what remained of his body to ensure that it would not be there tomorrow. I walked back to my house to find my lover attempting to remove herself from her bondages, her pretty little feet kicking furiously, tied together tightly, unable to be pulled apart. Her eyes were opened in horror, and she attempted to scream. But no matter how loud she screamed, even if she could have, no one would hear her. My house was far away from any other human being, save the one who was chopped into a thousand pieces and dissolving sixty yards into the forest. Oh, what fun I would have before I killed her.
I walked to her and hovered over her. "Oh, you poor, innocent, virginous little angel. Has the devil come to end your little games? Has Lucifer himself emerged from the fires of hell to bring you into oblivion?" I mocked her infidelity in a voice so harsh and bitter that I didn't doubt that I actually did sound like Lucifer.
"What, you little whore? Did you think I was ignorant to your little affair? Oh, I knew you fucked him when I was away. I've known for two months. And for two months I've been planning this night. I'm so glad we could be alone. Oh, I'm sure you'll miss him, but he's a bit too busy bubbling in a puddle of gore to give a fuck about you." She was going hysterical behind the duct tape that I had placed over her mouth. But I suddenly wanted to hear her cries of pain and agony. I wanted to hear her scream.
"Oh, do you have something to say, my princess? Do you want the big bad meanie to take the tape off your mouth?" I knelt down and removed the tape. Her screams were so shrill that they hurt my ears. But I loved it. After a minute, her screams turned into tears and whimpers. "I surely hope I haven't made you sad. I mean, someone who has never done anything to hurt anyone else shouldn't be treated like this, should they?" I wanted to let her know that she deserved this. "Maybe if you had remembered everything I'd done for you, if you'd felt grateful that I went to work and to school so that I could support you, maybe then you wouldn't be lying there right now."
Suddenly, I realized how beautiful she was, lying there, entirely unable to escape. Her face was red and drenched in tears; she was naked except for her bra and panties, her breasts plump behind the fabric that restricted them. The white cloth of her panties teasingly hid the most beautiful part of her from me. Oh, how I wanted her. Her skin was so delicate and penetrable. I reached into my pocket and retracted a small switchblade knife that I often carried. She closed her eyes.
I used the blade to cut through the fabric between her breasts, the two beautiful fleshy things revealed as the bra fell. I placed my right hand on her breast, coaxing it roughly. "P-please -- don't do this to me! Please... please..." She cried "please" as a child who doesn't want to be beaten and sent to its room does, except more powefully, more desperately. Wildly, lustfully, I brought my mouth to her breast and sucked on it, licked it, bit it. She had never let me be rough with her. She liked it gentle. But tonight, it wasn't about what she wanted anymore.
I pulled her panties off of her, revealing her nicely shaved pussy and her beautiful rounded ass. Both of them would be mine tonight. I would fuck her from behind, I would cum in her; I would do all the things that I never otherwise could have. Forcing her to lay on her stomach, I placed one hand on her backside and rubbed it lustfully. "I bet you're a bit tight in there. But don't worry. We can fix that." She screamed for me not to do it, yelled for me to just stop, to kill her and save her from the pain. But her pain was my pleasure, and pleasure was something that I hadn't received from her in months. I grabbed a broom handle from the closet and ran my hand along the rounded wooden end of it. Perfect.
"NO! NOT THERE! PPPLLEEASSE!" She cried in desperation. "Put it anywhere else! I'll suck on it, I'll let you cum in me, just please don't put that there!" I stood behind her now, teasing the tight entrance of her ass with the end of the handle. "No! NO!" I slowly began to force the wooden stick inside of her tightest hole, taking orgasmic pleasure in her screams. Her screams became the most shrill of cries as I became able to work the thing back and forth, slowly. I didn't push it very far in, though. Only about three or four inches. I wanted my full six and a half inches to cause her the greatest pain. I pulled the thing out of her and dropped it on the floor. Then I mounted her, pulling off my clothes as quickly as I could. I shoved my hard meat into the hole that the broom handle had occupied, the tight muscles of her ass closing powerfully around me. It took me a few moments, but finally I shoved the full length of my dick into her and she screamed so loud that the entire house resonated with the sound of her voice. In and out, in and out I moved myself against her tight, desperate walls. Finally, I pulled myself out of her and turned her onto her back. Her cries reduced again to whimpers, and I'm sure she was in pain greater than any she had ever even imagined. I took such pleasure in this fact that the sex itself was nothing. It was her pain, her desperation that I enjoyed. I lifted her legs into the air; she had no energy or motivation to fight me anymore. I took the broom handle and put it inside of her again, shoving it as far as I could manage, six, seven, eight, maybe ten inches into her. Her screams returned, but she hadn't the energy to make them as loud as before. I shoved my meat into her pussy, and her walls immediately attempted to push me out as though she was giving birth. But my power was too much.
My dick felt warm and powerful inside the tight walls she tried so desperately to remove me from. Soon she could cry no longer, and she only stared at me in pain as I took her for my own. I palmed her breasts, I ran my hands down her stomach, I grabbed and groped and clung to her as she would never have let me done. I was like a wild animal. My humanity was entirely dissolved as I raped her. As I approached my climax, I could almost feel the human part of me dying as the beast, the animal, the Beezlebub inside of me posessed my body. Finally I came, a river of my thick white cum spilling inside of her, and the walls of humanity that had caged the beast I truly was had been reduced to dust and rock.
I carried her to my truck and gagged her with a rope. I also taped her mouth again as well as I could to ensure that she would do no talking. I put her in the bed of the dead man's truck and drove a few miles into the woods, into places that only I knew existed. I had already dug her grave. I had brought the shovel for other purposes.
I drug her out of the vehicle and threw her to the dirt. I grabbed the shovel and began to beat her with the metal of the shovel, beat her and beat her as she tried to scream but couldn't, not only because I had muted her but because she hadn't the energy to scream anymore. I took the wooden end of the shovel and bashed it powerfully against her ribs, making sure that every one of them was broken. I wanted her insides to be as helpless as the rest of her.
From the inside of my jacket I protracted a large hunting knife that my father had given me as a boy. The blade was seven inches long and three inches wide. One side was thick and blunt while the other was as sharp as the hatchet I had destroyed her other lover with. I began to dig into her, to dig through her stomach and ribs. I worked on her front and back, making a perfect hole through her body. I dug just deep enough to do what I intended, her flesh and guts spilled on the ground and her stomach.
But her heart still beat.
The old telecaster was the finishing touch. I drug the beautiful instrument from the bed of the truck and removed it from its case. Its blue coat of paint shone beautifully in the light of the moon. I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to her feet. I held the guitar in my right hand where the neck and the body meet. I looked into her eyes for the last few seconds of her life.
I smirked wickedly as I shoved the instrument through her body, ending the pathetic beating of her heart, destroying her efforts to cling to her life. It was the guitar she had loved, so let her be buried with it. That moment was more beautiful, more full of justice than any of them. Her naked and raped body penetrated by the instrument that had drawn her to me, her dead yellow flesh illuminated by the light of the moon.
I threw her body into the deep grave I had dug her and shoveled the dirt over her.
I drove the truck to a cliff that was longer than a walk away from my house and turned it on, putting it in gear and letting it roll off to a fiery end at the bottom. Exhausted, I walked the long walk back to my small house and showered, making sure I had left absolutely no evidence linking me to the crime.
It's been five years since that night. I am now a wealthy bank executive who lives in a mansion in San Francisco with a beautiful wife. For one night, my name was Justice, and I carried out the unwritten consequences of the universe upon two people who had tried to destroyed me and instead had destroyed themselves. It was not I who hacked that man's body to pieces. It was not I who bound and raped my loved one. It was not I who shoved that Telecaster through her chest. It was they who did this to themselves. Every time they slept together they made their deaths more horrible. With every kiss they brought their end closer. For every act of infidelity, the monster within me became more and more motivated to mutilate and ultimately destroy.
I was karma that night. I carried out the punishments that the universe itself created for the laws broken by my lover and her consort. I am innocent of all crimes; I am no criminal. To all those who commit unwritten crimes against those they know and love, let them know that the doers of justice will bring to them and end more horrible than their human minds could ever have fathomed or feared.