The First Kill

If She Did It, by Horace P. Krouch
Chapter 2: The First Kill

The blonde waiter was sitting nude in the armchair and living room. “Daphne Blain’s” stockings bound his ankles to the chair legs. His hands were secured behind him to the back of the chair. Their clothing was strewn across the room.

They were both still perspiring. His energy was spent, but Daphne was getting even more energized by the thought of fulfilling her fantasy. All of the sex to this point was really foreplay for what was to follow She brushed aside a wisp of auburn hair and watched him quietly, wondering whether he would have the strength to fight back when she attacked. She studied his hands and feet, which were so tightly bound that the veins were bulging.

Daphne could barely control herself. She was trying to savor the moment. Her first kill. Her true passion. The feeling was indescribable. Her eyes were wide with excitement, filling the room with their malachite glow.

Daphne tip-toed behind his chair to grab her satin stockings. So delicate. So light. So seemingly harmless. So perfect for murder. She wrapped her hands at each end and applied a little tension. They would serve their purpose. A feeling of power surged within her. She sensed it flowing through every muscle in her body. She had suppressed the yearning for so long. This was what she needed. This was what she was meant to do. It would only take a few moments. She would be in complete control. She would take revenge for all of the insurrection of her entire life. The thought of being in complete power over another individual was exhilarating. She was ready

With a rapid swipe of both hands she swung the stockings around the waiter’s neck and pulled so tightly that she nearly toppled the chair. His eyes shot open. Every muscle in his body contracted simultaneously as he attempted to free himself from the bondage. His head lurched from side to side in an attempt to free the stockings from his throat, but she had the position of power. He had no chance.

She was smiling fiercely and even let out a laugh as he gasped for air. The feeling was even better than she imagined.

The waiter’s face turned shades of purple as he struggled to suck air in. Eyes filled with horror implored her to stop, but nothing could stop her now.

She took a unique delight from every second of the struggle. If she waivered for a moment, he might escape. She wanted to enjoy the moment for longer, maybe even give him a gasp or two of air to prolong his fight, but that seemed too risky. His arms fell limp at his side. She continued to hold tension while lamenting the absence of his resistance

After a few more moments the deed was done. The waiter was dead.

Watching her own nude form in the mirror, she walked over to the kitchen and found some grapes for a snack. She was still hyperventilating, less from the physical effort than from the excitement. From this point forward, her heart would race whenever she remembered the feeling of having completely dominated the waiter.

She kissed his forehead, got dressed, and slipped out the door, unseen.

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