Page 1 of Cry, Little Dove

She doesn’t wake up as the tip of my hard cock drags over her plump lips, my pre-cum painting them like pearlescent gloss. Her tongue darts out, flicking wet against it, and I groan.

Fuck, I shouldn’t be here.

Not because it was difficult to pick the lock. Hell naw. All these shitty roadside motels are the same.

Not because I’m afraid of getting caught, either.

Sleeping Beauty is out cold, lying between empty beer bottles and caramel chocolate wrappers strewn across the bed. To be fair, she doesn’t look much like Sleeping Beauty. More like Snow White with her long, black hair and almost porcelain-pale skin.

What a fuckin’ smoke show.

She’s lithe and has perky tits, nipples hardened to points beneath a black t-shirt. Her right arm is tucked under her head, a tattoo of a skull with smoky wisps peeking out. She’s lying on her side, legs folded over. The position accentuates her tight waist and makes her ass stick out, red panties caught between those round cheeks.

I wonder what hides between her tattooed thighs. Roses, thorny vines, and gems connected with delicate pearl chains cover the right one, the left bearing the image of two skeletons embracing like lovers, framed by lilies.

By far, she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Pity to think a pretty lil thing like her is gonna get gutted on my operating table tomorrow night.

I stroke myself while I press my nose into the crook of her neck. The scent of her perfume fills my nostrils and my head spins. Vanilla and cinnamon with a darker, floral note. Spicy and sweet and seductive.

She writhes, turning on her back. I flinch as her mouth brushes mine in an accidental kiss, and I lick her bottom lip, tasting drops of myself, beer, and chocolate. Her change in position has pushed up her shirt, revealing a tattoo beneath her breasts.

The dark, geometric mandala with swooping arches and downward-pointing spires reminds me of a gothic church. A large black widow with a skull on its carapace is inked beneath her belly button, sitting on a web of V-shaped, delicate lace patterns. They disappear under her panties like an arrow pointing to her pussy. Her tattoos are all black and white. No colors. Mine are the same.

Damn, she’s so perfect it hurts, but she’s not my target. Not originally.

I’ve never taken an innocent before.

When I started out killing years ago, I laid ground rules for myself to keep the beast inside me in check and stop me from going off the deep end. The most important rule is an eye for an eye.

That means I only harvest scumbags, cherry-picked from classified police reports and court transcripts I buy off the dark web. Assholes who were acquitted under strange circumstances or found not guilty despite overwhelming evidence.

My actual victim lives another hundred miles from here. This motel was supposed to be a quick stop to get a few hours of rest, but then I sawher.

She walked into the gas station across the street while I was getting a snack for the road and my brain went haywire. I knew she was my next. It felt like fuckin’ fate, and no man should try to defy destiny.

I pulled my hat into my face and crouched behind the newspaper stand, pretending to read the headlines. It wasn’t easy for a tall guy like me to hide under the bright store lights, but she was too preoccupied with choosing a drink from the fridge to notice me.

Even in sweatpants she was an apparition. A sliver of her stomach showed beneath a cropped, tight top with a demon girl on it. Her hair was in a messy bun, eyes rimmed with smudged black, and I watched her chew on those full lips until she settled on two packs of the cheapest beer. She bought some chocolate bars, a few bags of BBQ potato chips, and cup noodles, too.

Boot laces dragging in the dust, she stomped across the street to the motel, a brown paper bag in her arms. She walked with her head down, eyes shifting like she was running from something or somebody.

There was an irresistible duplicity to her. A mix of innocence and damaged intensity, like a white dove with a broken wing. It intrigued me.

That was days ago and I was supposed to leave. But here I am, watching my little dove sleep, touching myself over her unconscious body.

My cock throbs. I stroke faster, my other hand pulling up her top, and I palm her breast, twisting her nipple between two fingers. She squirms, a tiny moan slipping from her lips.

I grit my teeth so hard I think I feel a molar crack, but I don’t stop pumping my dick.

Something is fuckin’ wrong with me. Well, beyond the usual murderous urges.

Since I laid eyes on this woman, I can’t stop thinking about her, blood rushing in my ears and my skin prickling like a current of electricity runs under it. Sleep eludes me almost entirely. All I want is to rip every last shred of purity from her heart, excise every scrap of virtue from her flesh like a tumor and bathe her in my crimson shadows.

I spend too many hours sitting in my pickup truck down the street, looking into her room with binoculars. She often forgets to close the curtains just like she did tonight, though I closed them when I broke in. I need privacy for what I’m about to do to her.

But I’m not attracted to my victims. Never. They are meat. Lambs to the slaughter. Prey.

---