=Erin's End=

So this is really it, Erin said to herself in a clear objective inner voice. This is how I die. The sissy’s thin broken body was bleeding quietly into a bed of fragrant pine needles. The gibbous moon was cold and brilliant, the holly leaves silvered in its harsh light, and the universal moaning of the waves somehow made one feel not quite so alone. So this is really it, she repeated, as if to convince herself, it seemed so unreal, this is how I die.

She (I’ve earned the right to say “she” now, haven’t I, Erin asked herself sadly, a little bitterly, certainly I’ve paid an appropriate fee…) was lying prostrate just off the trail where he’d dragged and dumped her with one white fishnet stockings tied tightly around her throat, her tiny pink minidress hiked up over her hips, exposing her pale buttocks, bared, except for the narrow red strip of her g-string panties, which bisected those milky opalescent globes of smooth flesh. Later, he’d find one of her red platform sandals in the trunk of his car where it had come off in her futile struggle; he’ll dump it in a public trashcan outside a Dunkin Donuts or a Home Depot, or burn it in a fireplace or compost heap when he returned home, wherever that might be, cutting the one remaining link between them.

Evidence.

Unless he decided to keep it.

In that case it would be a trophy of his conquest, a fetish of his kill. Would he masturbate over it, sniff the worn leather where her painted toes had pressed as he fucked her one last time, cum at the memory of her sphincter convulsively squeezing his shaft as he cut off her airway, her dwindling passage to life? Christ help her, it gave her a kind of pleasure to think she could give anyone pleasure even after she was dead; it was a kind of immortality, after all, wasn’t it?

Perhaps she ought even to be grateful to him for delivering her from mortality, for raising her out of mundanaeity. There were many worse ways to die. Cancer, for instance. Perhaps she could try to see him as a priest performing a sacrament, as her own personal savior delivering her from sickness, old age, a common death. Maybe that would make it easier to accept, and at this point making it easier seemed the only goal worth pursuing.

She had no more future, that was certain; no more than minutes, if you could call that a “future.” The plastic tie was still cinched tightly around her wrists behind her back. That was to make it easier for him to do what he had to do. There would be no defensive wounds on her hands or arms. She hadn’t been able to defend herself. No tell-tale scratches would mark his face. He’d left her ankles unbound. Why bother tying them? She wasn’t going anywhere in her state. The oily rag he’d shoved halfway down her throat after he’d finished using her mouth was quite unnecessary now; he’d probably just forgotten all about it. With her ribs broken as they were, she could hardly draw enough breath to make a whimper.

Go ahead. Try it.

See? Nothing.

She hadn’t been careless; she’d simply come to trust her instincts. They’d served  her well. It wasn’t like it was the first time, or even the tenth, that she’d met a man at a truck stop for sex. She prided herself on being able to avoid the crazies and sleazoids and the proof of her ability to steer clear of trouble was that she’d never run into any. Usually they were married guys on the road, businessmen, salesmen, long-distance truckers, whatever, looking for an illicit quickie, horny and eager for a little no-strings action on the way between here and there. Usually it was a blowjob in the front seat or the sleeper of a tractor-trailer, occasionally they’d want to try out her ass, and after it was over, usually no longer than ten minutes, it was thanks and so long, maybe we can meet next time I’m in the area, but Erin knew she’d never see them again. She was okay with that; but then, she had to be, didn’t she? It wasn’t as if she had a great deal of choice in the matter.

Just an average looking guy in an average looking car; she wouldn’t have been able to describe him much better if she’d had the chance. It was ironic, nothing about him stood out, nothing at all suggested he was the “one,” the one to fear, the one to say “no” to. Mr. Normal was Mr. Psycho—she never saw it coming.

The blow to the back of the neck as she leaned against the roof of the car while he fucked her came out of the blue; short, brutal, effective—the fucking and the blow; it had disoriented her. She didn’t realize what had happened, what he’d done until his hands were around her throat. She tried to tell him to ease up a little,he was squeezing too tight, but he only squeezed tighter when she managed a tiny squeaky whimper and drove his cock deeper inside her. She tried to wriggle away but it was impossible with the full weight of his big body pressing her slender frame into the car, his cock practically impaling her there, his fingers crushing shut her windpipe. He ignored her struggles. Erin told herself that he didn’t realize how roughly he was using her, that he was only caught up in the passion of the moment, that it would be over before too long, he’d cum, and let go. These were things she didn’t really believe.

Along the parkway the sporadic traffic seemed as if it were in another reality altogether, remote as events in outer space. She was hidden from the road by the car and the car itself hardly visible tucked far back in the darkest section of the sprawling lot nearly empty at two a.m. on a weeknight. A perfect place, in other words, for a sissy to meet a married man for a quickie fuck—a perfect trap, as well, Erin conceded ruefully just before losing consciousness.

She remembered nothing between that moment and the moment she woke in the cramped confines of the trunk. A dream? That was the most desperate kind of wishful thinking. Less desperate, but still wishful, was the hope that it was over, that he’d raped and beaten her, left her somewhere or other. Odd how she could have come to such a pass that she’d consider herself lucky if that is “all” that had happened to her, but she’d give anything if it were only true. She’d make her way home somehow, clean herself up, no need to involve the police: she would consider it all a hard lesson learned. She’d give up taking chances; she bargained with the God she didn’t really believe in; she promised herself.

Slowly, though, she became aware of the smell of gasoline and oil, the rough, short-fibered carpet under her cheek, the corner of something cold and sharp digging into her thigh, the uninterrupted whine of tires on a smooth road. I’m in a car trunk, Erin thought. And I’m going to die.

In the blank interim between consciousness, the plastic tie had found its way around her wrists and the oily rag had been crammed into her mouth. She had to concentrate on swallowing very carefully, trying, as hard as possible, not to ingest what had stained the filthy rag. It wouldn’t do to choke to death on her own vomit in the trunk of a stranger’s car. She had to breathe just as tentatively, for fear the rag might shift and completely close off what narrow airway remained.

She could feel the sharp splinters of pain where he must have hit with his fists before she passed out and slipped to the ground. Her boi-pussy felt torn and much too wet and the wetness much too warm. The knife hadn’t come into play yet, that was still to come, but it was coming soon. She kicked weakly at the inside of the trunk, lost a platform sandal, started weeping, exhausted herself and lay quietly. She wondered how he would kill her and if it would take long and if it would hurt very much. She wished she could have a do-over, just this once, she’d never ask again. She realized she was praying, knew it would do no good, and went on anyway.

The car stopped. Crunching footsteps. The trunk swung open and he stood looking down at her.

“Please,” she gasped, “please.” She didn’t know what else to say.

He undid her garters and peeled off one of her stockings all with the greatest patience. He fashioned a kind of leash out of the fishnet and half-lifted, half-helped her out of the trunk. The fantasy of breaking free and making a run for it evaporated almost immediately. One shoe on, one foot bare, she stumbled after him as best she could. Whenever her pace slackened, a sharp yank tightened the stocking around her neck and forced her forward, choking and gasping.

They were close by the ocean; she could hear the breakers and smell the briny air, heavy and wet. She wished she could lost the other platform sandal: it sank awkwardly in the sand with every step. She tried to compensate by walking on the toes of her bare foot, which was painfully subject to the stones, broken shells, and sharp twigs that littered the sand.

Her captor had parked along a dark, sandy road that accessed the beach, but he was leading off into the surround woods of holly and stunted pine trees. Her bare foot found the ground cactus that grew wild on the dunes; she staggered, he yanked on the leash, and her ankle twisted badly in the platform sandal. She pitched forward. With her hands tied behind her back, she was unable to break her fall. Her face plowed into the sand and thorns. He cursed her and pulled up on the leash as if to lift her to her feet with it; the stocking stretched to its limit. Erin thought she’d strangle right there. Foamy spittle flecking her lips, she scrambled to get her feet under her before she blacked out from lack of air. The ankle was no good to walk; it felt as if it were full of ground glass. She fell again and he cursed and kicked her in disgust. Then he kicked her again, even more savagely. Pain exploded inside her. When the worst of it subsided, one side of Erin’s body didn’t seem to work right anymore. She’d lost her urine.

“Crawl then you cunt,” he spat down at her, furious. “If you can’t fucking walk.”

He raised his boot as if to kick her again and Erin, eager to avoid the agony another kick would cause, managed to get awkwardly on all-fours and shuffled forward on her hands and knees into the undergrowth where he led her. Not more than ten yards later she collapsed onto a thick bed of fragrant pine needles, knowing that she couldn’t go any further, no matter what he threatened to do to her—and he seemed to know it.

He didn’t say a word; he just dropped his pants and fucked her on the forest floor. At some point, just before he came the second time, he slid the knife inside her. He took it out and slid it back in again. He moved it around inside her belly, severing things, important things, releasing dark and fatal tides; it felt like a white-hot bolt of lightning zigzagging had been set loose inside her. Only after he came did he pull the knife out of her, along with his cock.

What will they say when they find me, Erin thought, accepting her death as a matter of fact, already thinking ahead to her corpse, and all the unanswered questions it would raise, all the shame, the disgust, the ridicule. There was a moment of utter panic when she thought about the discovery and identification of her body—the last such panic in a lifetime of reactive covering up—but she was strangely soothed to realize that death meant that she no longer had to worry about such things. She’d paid her dues. Her ticket was punched, that proved it. She didn’t have to cover-up anymore; she’d never have to be afraid or ashamed ever again. By the time they found her, she’d be long gone. She closed her eyes in a kind of peace as she felt her Deliverer continuing to brutally fuck her body.

The worst part was already over.

=========

Not long before dawn he came up from the beach where he’d been fishing for most of the night. He was driving slowly along the access road, halogen lights blazing; it was a dark morning. He was still wearing his rubber waders; his poles and tackle box, the cooler with the half-dozen bluefish he caught, stowed in the back of his truck. He’d caught only a fleeting glimpse of the car up ahead, lights off, pulling stealthily away from where it had been partially hidden just off the side of the road.

He decided to stop in the place where he thought he’d seen the car pull away. Some hunch, some premonition, perhaps, he’d never be able to say exactly why he’d stopped, what he suspected. Just a vague suspicion that something was wrong. He grabbed a flashlight from the glovebox and walked a few yards into the woods. He didn’t know what he was looking for—it was probably nothing, he told himself. He walked a little further, swept the flashlight beam back and forth. This is retarded, he told himself, and took a few more steps before turning back when the flashlight beam snagged on a glimpse of pale flesh.

He followed the light as if he were bringing in a fishing line at the end of which he discovered his “catch.”

Holy shit, he murmured.

He stood, staring, goggle-eyed at the disheveled girl lying face down on the ground, her wrists tied behind her back. He undid the fastenings on his waders and opened his pants. As if partially hypnotized, he crossed the remaining few yards that separated them. He already knew what he was going to do without even knowing. He squatted beside her, reached out, and touched a cool bare shoulder—an involuntary tremor passed through the body in response. He took his hard, heavy cock in hand.

“You’re not going to make it anyway sweetheart,” he reasoned out loud. With the girl, with himself. “You might as well enjoy this.”

Her panties were already down. The smooth flesh of her ass shone softly even in the dark as if it were drawing him towards the dark bulls-eye of pleasure at its center. The girl seemed offered up to him to fuck. And fuck her is what he was going to do; he realized he’d decided the moment he saw her lying there helpless and dying.

He positioned himself behind her on the soft forest floor and drew the slender hips towards him. The girl moaned softly but there was no struggle left in her. She hardly seemed to weigh anything at all. He could see the knot of the stocking tied tightly around her throat but never thought of undoing it. Too late, anyway, that’s what he told himself.

He slid in easily. She was good and loose back there. Someone had no doubt sodomized her repeatedly before dumping her body. He’d always wanted to try fucking a girl up the ass but it had never worked out for one reason or another, the lack of a girl willing to take his willie up her poop chute being at the very top of the list. Now that the first problem was solved, everything else fell quickly into place. She was well-lubed back there, too, and the fact that she was greased with her rapist’s spunk didn’t deter him in the least, but, truth to tell, turned him on all the more. Christ I’m getting kinky in my old age, the fisherman thought. And damn, if she didn’t feel good; her ass warm and tight. That and the thought that he was ass-fucking a girl who’d be dead very soon nearly made him cum immediately.

He managed to calm down, to pace himself; it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; it would be a shame to rush it. He pushed his meat slowly in and out of her, savoring the sensations of the poor girl’s defenseless asshole which gamely still contracted around his cock, providing him with an exquisite pleasure. He reached around and under to finger her—for his own amusement as she was clearly beyond any pleasure herself by now—except, perhaps, that of oblivion.

Imagine his surprise when he discovered her surprise: small, limp, helplessly leaking. I’ll be damned, it’s a fucking fag, some kind of transgender sissy queer, not that realizing this could stop him now, buried to the balls in her ass, rocking his way to an imminent and explosive orgasm. He squeezed the soft little pile of genitals in his hand, crushing them like a cold carnation as he came, stifling the groan of ecstasy that rumbled up through his entire being and poured itself out of his cock along with what felt like a boiling gallon of semen into the dying sissygurl’s ass.

========= 

Erin died sometime during the fisherman’s final thrusting, feeling her insides fill with the life and warmth of a living man even as her own body rapidly grew cold and lifeless. She was numb with shock, only dimly aware, too far gone to be afraid before the spark flickered out in her eyes.

The fisherman would forever remember his stolen fuck in the woods with the dying transvestite. The memory would provide masturbatory fodder for countless orgasms throughout the rest of his life. He’d feel only the briefest and most occasional guilt over the episode, never going so far as to actually regret having taken advantage of a situation certain to never present itself again, and eventually congratulating himself for having provided a little comfort and companionship to the ravished sissy at the moment of what otherwise would have been her lonely and solitary death in the woods.

Yes, he’d all but done the pansy a good deed by fucking her at death’s door. Still, he never told anyone what he’d done; it remained his delicious and dirty little secret. He gave himself a pass for fucking a pussyboi; after all, he didn’t know it was a tranny until after his cock was inside it.

As for the killer—he was never caught. He’d killed several before Erin, several after, and he goes on finding victims.

As for the red platform sandal Erin left behind in his trunk, the killer does indeed still keep it as a souvenir, along with similar souvenirs he’s taken from each of his victims—a pair of panties, a scented stocking, a g-string, a cheap earring, a hair band. He takes one or another from the curio cabinet where he keeps the collection and turns the selected item over in his hand. He sniffs it, licks it, contemplates it—and the memories come flooding back; he remembers each of his “special” girls.

He smiles. His cock is rock hard in his fist.

(This is another story i wrote some time ago and posted to the alternate sex story text repository under a pair of pseudonyms. 

People will often disapprovingly claim not to understand such fantasies while at the same time enjoying novels, tv shows & movies about serial killers, vampires, & other monsters of the fuck & kill variety. What are these types of "entertainment" but titillating depictions of sexualized violent death? What are the Hostel series of movies, just to take one example, but an excuse to depict a Sadean excess of eroticized murder? Why are so many attractive women in tv shows and movies murdered naked in the shower? Or in sexy nighties before, during, or after sex? Why are these lovely victims always depicted found in sexy poses in sexy clothes or seductively laid out nude, their beauty enhanced by flawlessly applied cosmetic wounds, on morgue tables? What…are fat, old, ugly people in drab work clothes not murdered, too? Or is it that they just make uninteresting, unappealing and unstimulating sex-sacrifices? 

The audience feigns horror and moral outrage and expresses an eagerness to "see justice done" while watching these fictions. By doing so, they assuage the deep, unassimilated, & unacknowledged guilt they feel that the torture and murder of a beautiful victim has excited their lust. The criminal must pay the price for their sexual excitement! 

What i find reprehensible is not that the mix of sex and death excites the libido—the two are inextricably bound, after all—but that so few people have the moral courage to face and admit the fact that they were turned on in the first place. Instead they insist on maintaining a facade of false moral superiority even as they lasciviously gobble up like popcorn this union of sex and death with a cannibalistic furor.

Thinking ourselves better and purer than we are has always been the principle cause of most of the evil in this world. i like imagining myself the victim of a sadistic sex murderer & i've always been drawn to guys who aren't afraid to admit they'd get off on murdering me. i'm never surprised to find that there are more guys out there with this fantasy than most people—wrapped tightly in the kind of denial that allows the rightfully indignant to sleep easier at night—would care to think.)