Standing by the fireplace in her study, Lisa watched the snow coming down outside as she celebrated the publication of her latest erotic horror novel with a bottle of her favorite wine. She’d often wondered what it would be like to be one of the doomed damsels in distress she’d always featured in her books. Beautiful women fated to die horrible, gruesome deaths in the final chapter.

Still, having written about her heroines dying at the hands of jilted lovers, vengeful husbands, and other sadistic butchers, Lisa often fantasizes about what it would be like to die at the hands of an actual serial killer. So, she decided to find out.

I found his site on the dark web, where you can stream actual snuff films for the right price. A cruel and sadistic butcher, known only as the Ghost, claims to have murdered several hundred women, all of whom disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Although he kills his victims in a multitude of diabolically creative ways, many of them go to their deaths by brutal disembowelment.

My latest novel features Meredith, a female private detective hired by the family of one of Jack the Ripper’s victims. Going undercover as a prostitute in London’s Whitechapel district, she discovers too late that she’s become Jack’s next intended victim. Lured into a dimly lit alleyway, Jack guts her and leaves Meredith to die in a pool of her blood and spilled intestines, a delightfully gruesome idea I stole from several of the snuff films I’d viewed on Ghost’s streaming website.

Lately, I’ve been fantasizing about being the Ghost’s next victim, gagged and dangling from overhead chains, naked with the toes of my high heels just able to brush the blood-stained floor of his abattoir. He stands before me, wearing his identity concealing metal mask, holding a gleaming razor-sharp knife in his right hand.

In my fantasy, he reaches up and grasps the top of my thigh to hold me steady. His warm hand wraps around the back of my thigh, with his fingertips slipping within the hot, moist fold of my incredibly aroused sex. The knowledge that while he fully intends to use me to sate all his darkest sexual desires, he plans to wait until after I’m dead, quite a turn-on for a woman harboring dark sexual fantasies of necrophilia.

My heart skips a beat as he brings that knife up and presses its sharp tip against the smooth white skin just below my sternum. In that timeless moment, I desperately stare into his cold merciless eyes. The ballgag wedged behind my teeth, managing to stifle my screams as he pushed the blade of that knife painfully deep into my guts.

Feeling the tip of his blade grating against the vertebrae of Lisa’s spine, the Ghost paused to slowly twist the blade of the knife back and forth within her guts, her sexy body convulsing uncontrollably with each agonizing twist of his knife.

Already knowing from his vast experience, having gutted over four hundred women, the Ghost knew that it was time for Lisa’s grand finale. Tightening his grip on the knife’s blood-coated handle, he pulled it sharply downward. The razor-sharp blade effortlessly sliced through her guts as it opened her belly from her sternum to her crotch. Then, stepping aside as he felt the knife reach the front arch of Lisa’s pelvis, he gave the cameras an unimpeded view of his delightfully gruesome signature explosion of blood and guts as Lisa’s mutilated entrails spilled to the floor around her feet.

This is always the moment when I awake. The silk sheets of my bed soaked in sweat. My arousal is so powerful that all it takes is a mere brush of my fingertips across my clitoris for me to climax. Reaching for my vibrator, I hope that the Ghost will take me up on my offer and do me. I even mentioned he could harvest my C-cup implants. They’re perky but not oversized for his collection. After all, I used the royalties from my first hit novel to pay for the implants, and I’m rather proud of them.

Oh, and did I mention that in our last email exchange? If he doesn’t do me, I plan to make him the main character in my next novel...