Posted by Megaton on September 24, 2000 at 19:24:28:
Shannon and Meg lay close together, still cuddling, kissing each other, enjoying the feel of each other’s body. Outside it
was dark, silent; the light of the crescent moon shone through the window. Meg gently disengaged herself from her
lover’s soft arms, got out of bed.
“I’ll be right back. I have to go to the bathroom,” said the small, slim young woman, and smiled. Her lover stretched
luxuriously on the bed, her long, trim body beautiful in the dim moonlight. Shannon was part Asian, part Caucasian, all
lovely. Before she met Meg, she was straight; Meg was the one who had introduced her to the pleasures of lesbian love.
And she had taken to it well; she was one of the best lovers Meg had ever had.
“Don’t be long, hon,” said Shannon, her voice low and seductive, and rolled over on her side, closed her eyes.
Oh, I won’t be, Meg thought. She walked down the hall, into the bathroom, unrelieved lust burning in her like a dark
flame. Shannon didn’t know it, but she was about to die. Meg had loved her, still loved her, but it was her destiny to
have to slay everyone she loved. Many had died at her hands, not because she hated them, but because she loved them.
It was called necrophilia, and it was her curse. She shivered as she opened the cabinet in the bathroom, reaching beneath
the towels for the pistol. Shivered thinking of how Shannon would look when the bullets plowed through those firm,
beautiful breasts, digging bloody furrows through her heart and lungs. The way her lovely almond-shaped eyes would go
wide, the way her delicious mouth would open wide with shock. Then afterward, as Meg held her, kissed her, gave her
the sort of love she couldn’t give any living person...
The gun wasn’t there. Meg felt panic run through her, began throwing the towels out onto the floor. Shannon stepped
into the doorway, turned the light on. In her slim, strong hand she held the missing pistol.
“Looking for this?” She pointed it unerringly at Meg’s stomach. Panic turned into fear. Terror. This couldn’t be
happening.
“Shannon, it’s not what you think!” Meg had to get her off guard, get the gun away from her. She held her arms out in
supplication, took a step forward. If she could just get close enough to disarm her...
“What is it, then?” Shannon smiled, a cold, hard smile, and pulled the trigger once.
Meg staggered backward, against the wall, looked down to see a small hole punched in her soft belly, right above the
navel. As she watched, her guts churning, the hole filled with blood; it spilled over, trickled down her stomach to lose
itself in her dark pubic hair.
“I read your diary last night.” There was no love in the voice now. “Read about what you planned to do to me.”
“Oh...oh god, it hurts,” moaned the smaller woman, her hands clasped around her stomach, fingers pressing into the soft
flesh. She was breathing in deep, gulping sighs and her heart hammered in her chest. Her nipples jutted from her small,
round breasts, painfully hard. “Shannon, please, PLEASE!”
“Sorry, Meg, this time you get the bullets.” She fired again; the gun bucked in her hand.
Meg cried out, a stark, shattering howl of pain, and stared down at her body, looking at the new hole in her torso, level
with the bottom of her ribcage. She couldn’t breathe; it felt like a giant fist had punched her in the stomach, knocking
every atom of air from her lungs. Her legs gave way beneath her; despite every effort, she slid down the wall, sat there
against it, her legs spread wide, her hands still clutching her stomach, stained with wet red blood.
Shannon watched silently as death began to creep into Meg’s flesh. Her eyelids slowly, slowly closed; her head drooped
down as if she was falling asleep. Suddenly she threw her head back with a deep intake of breath, her eyes wide. She
was fighting not to die. Her hands slid from her stomach, clenched into fists, veins standing out in their backs. Her long
toes curled into tight balls; thin veins were visible in her feet as well.
Blood was puddling on the floor between her legs.
Shannon put down the gun, knelt beside the dying woman, strangely light-headed, her own heart pounding harder than it
ever had before. Her long fingers gently brushed the hair from Meg’s dying face, raised her head so she could look with
blurred, fading vision into Shannon’s lovely Asiatic features. Shannon kissed Meg’s brow, kissed her slightly open
mouth. Cuddled against her, excited beyond belief by Meg’s final, fatal shudderings. “You taught me what it was like
to love a woman,” she whispered in Meg’s ear. “And your diary made me wonder what it would be like to love the
dead, like you did.” She kissed Meg’s cheek. “So far I like it fine.”
Meg turned her head, slowly, to look at Shannon. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. Just soft, moist noises. A
look of resignation, of acceptance stole across Meg’s features as the dim light in her deep, deep brown eyes guttered,
faded and went out. She sighed a long, dying sigh; Shannon pressed her lips to Meg’s, her tongue going deep into
Meg’s mouth, tasting that final breath, all the delicate flavors of Meg’s dying.
Meg’s toes uncurled; her fists lost their tension; her whole body seemed to go limp. Shannon pushed Meg’s head back,
kissed that beautiful arc of neck, kissed the hollow at the base of her throat. Kissed the side of her neck, remembering
the pulse that once throbbed against her lips. Not now. Her hands found Meg’s breasts, caressed them in the way she
had loved when she was alive. She kissed her way down Meg’s dead throat, down her chest, covered those small ripe
breasts with kisses. Suckled at the hard teats, her hands exploring Meg’s sleek back, her heart pounding as she realized
this was better than any living lover could be.
Overcome with a strange passion, she sank her teeth into Meg’s left breast, excited by the yielding feel of the flesh within
her mouth.
Then the sledgehammer came down on her heart.
The lovely woman coughed, let go of her dead lover to clutch at her own chest, feeling the heartbeat lose its hammering
rhythm beneath her big breasts. “No!” Shannon groaned, and coughed hard as the sledgehammer hit her again. And
again. And again. “No, oh God, no --” Coughing, gasping for breath, her body suddenly wet with sweat, she staggered
to her feet, stumbled toward the door, hands still pressed to her heart.
Meg’s dead eyes watched her stumble, watched her stagger and fall in the doorway. Shannon moaned, a drawn-out wail
of despair, of pleading, but there was no one there to hear her cry. Embarrassment swept over her as she felt her bladder
and bowels evacuate themselves. Her heart was flopping inside her now, no rhythm to its aimless twitching. Somehow
she found the strength to drag herself back to Meg’s dead body, to rest her head between Meg’s dead breasts.
Shannon’s breathing hissed delicately in her nostrils. Once. Twice. Her mouth dropped open; her eyes rolled back.
The third breath never came. Instead a rattling began deep in her lovely Asian throat, welled up from within the dying
body and faded to silence.
Meg and Shannon, lovers, killers. Meg and Shannon, teacher and pupil. They lay there together, their bodies cooling,
stiffening on the bathroom floor. Tomorrow’s headlines would be sensational; scandal always sells more newspapers.
The two women lay there, quiet, pale and still, never knowing that their case was destined for fame in the annals of
crime. Outside, somewhere, a radio played a song: “Friends forever...”