Posted by Megaton on August 04, 2000 at 21:14:52:
I posted this at Fatal Females but I thought I'd put it here too...with a few changes...if that isn't ok, it's fine to remove it...
Sexy, voluptuous, with auburn hair and hazel eyes, Rita Blakely was a beautiful woman by
anyone’s standards. When she was in her teens, she had been pretty; as she grew older
she had outgrown mere prettiness. With adulthood had come the perfect poise, the regal
bearing that made all heads turn to watch her when she passed, that brought jealousy to
women’s hearts and excited fantasies to even the most saintly of men.
As a teenager, Rita was pretty. Now she was lovely. She was well aware of her looks; it
amused her to watch the male customers in the mall where she worked, clumsily
contriving to catch a glimpse of her through the large glass windows of the shop. She was
quite happily married and had no desire for any affairs, but it pleased her to know that she
_could_ have one, if she wanted. That even as she neared forty, she was still the object of
men’s desire.
Right now, though, she was concentrating on the monitor screen on her desk in her office.
The store was closed, but she couldn’t go home until she worked out the schedule and
budget for next week. She leaned back in her chair, ran her long fingers through her hair.
It was a nervous habit. Out on the sales floor, the new girl, Meg, was finishing up the
cleaning duties for the night. In a minute she would come in, punch the time clock and
leave. Meg was a good worker, but her backwardness toward the customers and her
gawky appearance was costing them sales. Rita considered letting her go, decided to give
her one more week. Before she left, they’d have another “pep talk”.
Unknown to Rita, Meg was outside the office, hiding behind one of the shelves, having
moved the merchandise around to give her a peephole into the office. Thin, with long,
stringy brown hair and glasses accenting the plainness of her features, Meg was half Rita’s
age and not nearly half as beautiful. Now she was watching her employer intently.
Passionately. Watching Rita’s perfect hands typing on the keyboard; looking at her long
white neck, at what she could see of her lovely face. Meg’s heart beat harder in her chest.
She became conscious of her heavy breathing. Her hand tightened on the length of plastic
clothesline she had purchased at the Dollar Tree that afternoon.
It was time.
Meg walked into the office. As she did, Rita quit typing, turned in her chair to face her.
“Meg, why don’t you sit down and --” She never finished her sentence. Savagely, Meg
threw a loop of clothesline over her head, brought it down around that long, beautiful
neck and pulled it tight with all the strength she had. Rita threw her head back, eyes
squeezed shut, mouth opened wide in a soundless scream. Her hands clawed at her throat,
at the cord biting into her neck, cutting off her air, cutting off blood to her brain.
Rita’s long, strong legs pushed violently back, shoving the chair away from the desk. Meg
shoved it back, leaned hard against it, pinning the older woman between the chair and the
desk. Rita writhed in the chair, shook her head back and forth, hands still at her throat.
This couldn’t be happening to her. This only happened in movies. Her hazel eyes opened
wide, filled with terror. She managed to choke out a single word: “Meggg--”
For answer, Meg put her knees against the back of the chair, leaned backward, letting her weight pull the loop of line even tighter. Rita gagged and twisted in the
chair, her legs kicking wildly beneath the desk, hands at her neck, fingers clawing,
scratching, trying impotently to get beneath the cord. It sunk so far into her throat that
the soft white flesh folded around it, hiding it from view.
Rita’s tongue lolled from her gaping, gasping mouth, tasting the air she couldn’t have.
Drool ran down her chin, down her throat. Tears welled up in the frightened eyes, spilled
over to roll down her cheeks. She shuddered, tossed her head back and forth, fingertips
making indentations in her neck.
Gasping for breath herself, Meg yanked still harder on the ends of the cord, more and
more excited by Rita’s frantic, futile struggle for life. Suddenly Rita stopped clawing at
her neck; her arms thrashed in every direction, fists clenched so tight that blue veins made
ridges in their backs. She shook her head wildly, hair lashing about; the floor was jarred
by a fusillade of kicking. Her chest heaved, big breasts bouncing beneath her blouse.
Meg closed her eyes tight, leaned back, feeling Rita’s struggles grow weaker and weaker
as she lost the battle. Finally there were only twitches on the line, as if Meg was fishing
and had a bite. Meg opened her eyes, still pulling tight on the cord.
Rita’s head hung down, glassy eyes staring at her breasts, tongue still sticking out between
her luscious lips. Her whole body had gone slack in the chair. A shoulder twitched and
was still; a hand clenched and unclenched; a leg jerked. Quickly Meg knotted the cord,
pulled it tight against Rita’s neck, knotted it again. With both her hands free now, Meg ran her fingers
through Rita’s rich auburn hair, let her fingertips brush the high cheekbones, gently stroke
the long white neck. She reached down, pushed her hands beneath the blouse, cupped a
breast in either hand, the nipples hard against her palms. She was surprised to find that
Rita wore no bra.
Even more surprised to feel the woman’s strong heart still beating, pounding hard and fast
beneath her breasts as if she had just run a race. And in a way, she had. She just hadn’t
crossed the finish line. Yet.
Meg kicked off her shoes. Kept her left hand on Rita’s left breast, feeling the heart beat
harder and harder beneath the warm flesh. With her right hand she unbuckled her belt,
unbuttoned, unzipped her jeans, let them fall down around her feet. Worked her panties
down as well. Her fingers found their accustomed place; she began to touch herself, to
pleasure herself, her motions timed to Rita’s heartbeat. Starved for oxygen, the heart beat
faster, harder beneath Meg’s clutching hand.
Rita’s body twitched and jumped, every
random motion driving Meg that much closer to orgasm.
She leaned forward, her head on
Rita’s shoulder, taking in the delicious scent of Rita’s perfume, feeling herself coming.
Rita jerked and quivered, her neck swollen, the cord buried in flesh. Below the cord a pulse pounded in her throat. Her beautiful face had a bluish tinge beneath the flawless skin, her eyes were wide and staring, unfocused.
Losing all control, Meg threw her head back and screamed as she came, fingers still working in the sticky wetness.
Rita's heart battered itself against her sternum, a bird dying in a cage. The dim light in her eyes guttered and faded.
Meg came again, her face and neck flushed, her breath coming in sharp gasps. And again. The third orgasm shook her whole body; she fell back, hit the floor, rolled over on her side. Laid there, eyes closed, weak as a kitten, gasping, panting, her heart pounding as hard as Rita’s had.
When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was Rita’s hand dangling in front of her face. Fingers purple, slightly curled into the palm, a gold watch encircling the slim wrist. A wedding band glittered on one finger; Meg pulled it off, threw it into the dark store. “Till death do you part,” she breathed, and kissed Rita’s dead hand. Worked her way up the arm, kissing it lightly, the soft, almost invisible hair of Rita's forearm brushing her lips. Meg marveled at the muscle tone beneath the soft flesh. Rita had kept herself in excellent condition. Finally she kissed the swollen neck, pushed her hands under the blouse, cupped the breasts again. Waiting.
There was no heartbeat slamming against her palm now. Only stillness. Silence. No frantic pulse in the dead throat. While Meg was resting on the floor, Rita Blakely had crossed the finish line.
Looking at the beautiful dead woman, Meg felt herself choke up, felt tears sting her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Rita,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” She untied the cord from around the lifeless neck, let it fall to the floor. “I loved you. I love you.”
She _did_ love her. Just as she had loved young, nubile Candy, handsome, virile Bobby, hardbodied weightlifter Kevin, and plump, chocolate-coloured Kim. They were all dead now, and she had cried for them too. Meg didn’t understand this compulsion, didn’t try
to. All she knew was that when she loved someone, she had to kill them. Somehow, in some incomprehensible way, this was the culmination of her love. She raised Rita’s head, kissed her mouth, her eyes, her forehead, her neck. Stepped away from the body, put on her panties, her jeans, her shoes. And walked from the office. Turned out the lights. It was time to leave town, as she had done four times before, in four different states. Soon she would find another lover.
Rita Blakely sat in her chair, long white arms dangling limp at her sides, hazel eyes staring sightlessly in the darkness. From now on,
her admirers would gather at the shop windows in vain.