“Good evening Ghost, I’m honored that you accepted my invitation. I've been an admirer of your delightfully gruesome work for some time, and finally getting to meet
you, even knowing it will inevitably result in my obscenely brutal death, remains one of my most intensely erotic fantasies.”
“Tonight it’s just the two of us, there’s no camera, no audience, only you and me, alone in this secluded, candlelit cabin in the woods. I’m yours to do with as you please, after all you’re the one wearing that scary looking metal mask and holding that razor-sharp machete. I'm merely a woman, alone and utterly helpless, wearing only a revealing red bodysuit and heels.”
Noticing the prominent bulge in the front of Ghost’s tight jeans, Miranda smiled, “Hmm that really looks uncomfortable. Maybe you should push me down onto my knees and orally use me to relieve some of your obvious discomfort. Perhaps you could even deep throat me, so I’m forced to swallow every last drop when you cum. On the other hand, you could also decide to pull out at the last second and cum all over my face and breasts.”
“Then after I’ve orally satisfied you, perhaps you’d like to take those restraints off the table and lock them around my wrists. I think you’ll find that the chain linking the manacles is just short enough, that if you loop it over that hook in the ceiling above your head, the toes of my high heels won’t reach the floor. And, while I know you intend to kill me, and likely harvest my breast implants for your infamous collection, why not indulge in a little sexual gratification before you kill me? Hanging by my wrists, I’ll be yours to use, vaginally and anally, as often and as many times as you desire. After all, only you knew I was coming up to the cabin tonight and no one will even miss me until Monday morning at the earliest, so why deny yourself a little amusement?”
A look of almost eager masochistic anticipation appeared in Miranda’s eyes, “Oh. If I could, I'd also like to ask a personal favor, when it’s time for me to die, use mine. Just this once, if you could set aside that machete and do me with the hunting knife I’ve suggestively left lying on the table. Between us, it’s always played a prominent part in all my darkest fantasies...”
Shortly after sunrise the serial killer known as the Ghost finished packing up Miranda’s remains. Her corpse folded neatly at the hips and knees with her arms at her sides, easily fit within his large wheeled cooler, joined the two five gallon, sealed plastic buckets filled with her badly mutilated entrails in the back of his van for the two-hour drive back to the warehouse. The cabin where she died, soon to be the unfortunate victim of an evidence consuming fire, one the arson investigator will incorrectly attribute to a leaking propane hot-water heater.
He’d also decided to keep Miranda’s hunting knife, its heavy razor-sharp stainless steel blade had sliced effortlessly through her guts as he disemboweled her. The look in her eyes, of pain mixed with almost eager masochistic anticipation, as he’d used it to harvest her breast implants just moments before she died, had been truly memorable. He still couldn’t decide if he’d use Miranda’s hunting knife on future victims or simply display it next to her breast implants in his display cabinet...