Posted by Barbanne on May 24, 2000 at 18:17:37:
I got this idea in an email from another female.
That's a female email.
She has this particular fantasy and, you may not know it, but I have fantasies too, and the two made a good story I thought.
What do you think?
AND THEN THERE WAS NONE.
Carol anne knew she was going to die.
Carol anne was nineteen and worked as a table dancer at Spiro's nightclub.
She was possibly the most beautiful girl in the world.
Quite tall, a figure from heaven, slender limbs, magnificent breasts, glorious hips, a face like a seductive angel and a mane of tawny blonde hair.
Carol anne, wearing only a brief pair of knickers, had been woken from a deep sleep and was now fighting for her life. As the man pulled tighter and tighter on the scarf, (one of her own Carol anne had noticed) her lungs were fighting for the air they needed to keep blood circulating to her brain. Her brain which was now fighting for life, hallucinating, star bursting. The other girls joked that Carol anne's brain had an IQ just above room temperature but without it she was lost. Her gorgeous body twisted and contorted, writhing in its fight for life.
Carol anne was a fit girl, quite strong (she worked out at the gym twice a week and jogged every day) but she was no match for the man on top of her. She could smell him, smell his feral rage and his male musk. She could smell herself, smell her sleep, her sweat, her fear. She was afraid, mortally afraid.
As Carol anne's consciousness faded and her labouring heart and lungs struggled to survive, she had momentary flashes of lucidity in which she clearly saw the headlines. The headlines she and the other girls had pored over and that she had so stupidly dismissed.
Schoolteacher strangled in classroom!
Girl found dead in ditch. Police say murders are related!
Rising netball star strangled with her own panties!
Fourth girl murdered! Neighbours say she was shy, quiet, well liked!
Serial Killer! Cheerleader is fifth victim!
The man jerked back on the scarf, sinews in Carol anne's neck snapped and her hyoid broke, her lungs received no air, her lips blued and her tongue unravelled as her eyeballs rolled backward. Her marvellous body, her marvellously fit, well toned, lovingly cared for body, shuddered, her brain spiralled into black and she died.
Jen Allan reached the top step and looked along the corridor.
If the brass knew what she was doing here she would be on traffic duty for years.
Policewoman Jen Allan knew she was right. Ever since the murders had begun she had had her suspicions. Now that five girls were dead she felt she must do anything to stop a sixth dying. She knew it was him! Knew it as surely as she knew that night followed day. And yet her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. She had gone to CID with her theories. "Nothing to go on," they had said. She had gone to the Chief of Detectives. "Show me some proof," he had told her. She had told them everything. "Yes, Jen, it makes out a case," they said "but where is there one shred of evidence to connect him to these crimes."
"He's clever," she told them, "he leaves nothing."
They just shook their heads.
So she had followed him. Followed him when he followed the table dancer. She hoped she was in time. She had to catch him doing something. She knew she was right.
Number Six oh two, that was the girl's apartment. Carol anne, that was her name.
Jen stopped outside the door. She tried the handle. Gently. Quietly. Silently. It gave, it was unlocked. She eased the door open and slipped inside. The living room was in darkness. A light shone from another room down the hall. A bedroom. She slipped out her service revolver and holding it in her right hand crept down to the door.
She looked in.
The girl, Carol anne wore only a tiny pair of knickers.
Lying on her back, her otherwise nude body was sprawled across the bed.
Her face was suffused with empurpled blood and her mouth gaped and her eyes stared, sightless and glassy, straight into Jen's.
Jen stepped into the room revolver held in front of her in a two handed grip.
The heavy porcelain statuette crashed into the nape of her neck.
She came too to find herself stretched out on the bed, her hands secured to the top of the bed with her own cuffs. Her ankles were tied together with her service belt.
He stood over her looking down.
She tried to speak but her mouth was sealed with duct tape. She could smell death coming off of the naked body beside her.
She squirmed and ummpphhed.
He loved it. It was just too sexy.
She was so dominant, so authoritative in her police uniform with its blue jacket and skirt, its shiny buttons and law and order look. He bet less than one in a hundred coppers would look as sharp as Jen did in their uniforms. Fill it so seductively.
And she was helpless.
She was his.
He started undoing the buttons.
By the time he had stripped off her jacket, her skirt, (thank you whoever put that zipper down the back) her regulation black nylons and her standard issue shoes, he was in a state of huge arousal. Who would have thought policewoman Jen Allan would be wearing a mesh bra and thong panties under all that oh so proper outer respectability.
He pulled off his trousers, fumbled with his boxers. He climbed on top of her and slid his hand inside her panties, fingered her cunt, twisted her nipples and hurt her.
Hurt her, that's what she deserved.
Bitch following him.
Then he raped her. Not once but twice.
She jerked and twisted around and screamed silently behind that tape. But she was helpless. He loved it!
It was a pity in a way when he got the scarf.
She knew what was going to happen.
He saw it in her eyes.
He did it slowly, just a little pressure and then gradually increasing it little by little. She knew what was happening and he watched her die a millimetre at a time.
She was magnificent.
He was sorry she had to spoil it all by pissing herself as she let go and died.
Barbanne walked into the mortuary.
Her mouth dropped.
She had taken this job as the night assistant in the city morgue because she had this wierd thing about death and dead bodies. Wierd, unnatural, but overwhelming. Truth was she was turned on enormously by a limp helpless corpse lying still, silent and unmoving. Her heart raced when she found she had to work on some young, pretty, almost unmarked boy. Her heart raced and her nipples tingled and she felt aroused and she would do things in the privacy of the chamber of death with that corpse. Things she couldn't help herself doing and things that she was sure the dead spirit enjoyed. That was why, under her white lab coat she wore only panties leaving her breasts uncovered and accessible and many times her hand strayed inside her panties.
She was also turned on by women. Even more than men. Somehow a dead woman's body, especially if she was Barbanne's age or thereabouts became for her an incredible sexual thrill. As she gazed at the woman lying there, she fantasised it being her that was there. Her herself lying there dead and at the mercy of those who found her. Found her and used her. In her wildest fantasies she saw herself lying dead and nude on the cold autopsy table and men, young men, and women, young women as well, standing around and discussing her, discussing her body and the cause of death and................. and then they would use her body. One after another they would mount her corpse and satisfy their sexual urges upon it.
She shivered and hugged herself.
Most of the stiffs were disappointing. Fat, old, drug ravaged. Not at all pretty. Not sexy.
But these two!
The table dancer and the policewoman.
Lying there nude and still in the icy chill of the air conditioning on the spotless stainless steel tables.
They took her breath away and she felt heat spreading at her groin.
The table dancer, Carol anne her toe tag said, was beautiful. In life she must have been spectacular. Now, lying here on her back, arms by her sides, legs stretched out, she was gorgeous. Her face showed the bluish discolouration of death, she had been strangled, but the remainder of her body was flawless.
But the policewoman!
Jen Allan her toe tag said.
She was tallish, slender, a pretty brunette. Not maybe so pretty now as she also had been strangled and her face was blue and her lips were purpled but she was Barbanne's dream. Small but perfect breasts, large areolae, slender legs and arms delicate fingers and toes. Barbanne walked over and locked the door and pulled the blinds to the observation windows. She came back to the table where Jen lay in the harsh, cold, light. She slipped her coat off and tossed it over another table. It was freezing in the air conditioning but she didn't feel it. Her body was hot.
She leaned over Jen's corpse and kissed her cold lips. Her fingers played with Jen's nipples and her other hand sought out Jen's slit. Her index finger slid easily inside the cold but oily passage behind the policewoman's labia. She half lay across the body so that her own breasts flattened themselves against the yielding flesh of the dead breasts. Her lips locked onto those dead lips. One hand stayed inside the dead girl's cunt while her other hand found her own cunt and began rubbing herself to arousal, no, not really arousal, she was already highly aroused, to orgasm.
He couldn't believe it.
When he had broken in earlier he had hoped to find himself alone with his two victims.
Sex in the sterile surrounds of the morgue with Carol anne and Jen Allan would be worth any risk.
He watched as the young mortuary attendant, stripped to a pair of bikini panties only, masturbated herself while loving Jen Allan's corpse.
And a spare stainless steel table awaited.
And he had the scarf he had used to kill the other two women.
He moved forward.
Orgasming, Barbanne heard nothing.
Pretty maids all in a row.
The Dancer, the Copper, the Mortuary Miss.
...........and then there was none.
(none alive that is..........................................................)