Mrs. Serial Killer

Despite being a zoologist by profession, she wanted to write something literary. Something for the world to read and accept her ideas. Sometimes I thought maybe she wanted to write just for herself, publish a book just for herself, and keep it like a trophy on one of her many bookshelves. With half of her time spent researching animals and the other half dedicated to her reading, she would find a minuscule amount of time for us. But that wasn’t the issue as long as she was happy and writing. She would bring me pieces of her writing every now and then, thrusting them in my face for me to read and review for her.

She could write something vile and stomach-churning, or she could write the softest romance imaginable. But she had her own set of difficulties; whatever she wrote, she'd discover had already been written by another author a long time before. She'd swear she'd never read them before writing her own, and then explain in a very sophisticated, convincing tone that she might have slept with those authors in her previous life and they'd stolen her ideas. Her favorite “past life” lovers, she would say, were Osamu Dazai and Franz Kafka.

Apart from being a zoologist and a reader, she was the infamous serial killer “The Animal."

You might ask what I was to her. I was the lure.

One might wonder why I would tell you about her literary shenanigans when the whole thing boils down to her being a murderer. That's because her murders influence her writing. 

Her moniker, "The Animal," was not given by the government. She was labeled as such by a small true crime community in a small corner of the internet. What gave them the idea to name her that? I had no clue, but they were spot on. I would scour their little page and find many incorrectly listed victims. She didn't mind because I only kidnapped one animal per year, and she kept them for a year or so before discarding them. So we were still waiting for the government officials to pinpoint us.

A girl with brown hair "visited" her, and her presence inspired her to begin writing a new book. She would keep her naked in a cage with fresh grass as a carpet and feed her vegetables. Most ladies would be calm and subdued after three weeks, but men only needed a week or two.

Right in front of the cage, there was a dark wood desk and a similar-toned chair on which she would sit and look at us. Us, as in when I would be tasked to take one of her captives. She'd write a script for me to follow.

It would help you understand if I described one of her sessions. So, roughly, this is what would happen.

Whenever I was to abuse any of her animals, I was to wear condoms, but if one of her female animals had “beautiful” motherly breasts, she would ask me to impale them with my cock and impregnate them. This girl with brown locks, who had followed my suit after we met at a club for quick sex, was now the captive of my wife as her muse for writing. According to my wife, the girl had the most spectacular breasts she had ever wished to drink milk from, so she was to lactate for my wife to taste. 

She would place a delicious kiss on my mouth, vibrating all of my cords to an extent where I would want to fuck her instead, but after I would reach an erection, I too would be shoved into the cage, naked for her pleasure.

I watched as my beloved wife took her seat at her desk, looking right at us. Did I forget to mention that I was the hero in all of her novellas? It was just me, but different versions of me she would see reflecting in my eyes during the intercourse.

After she was comfortable in her chair and ready to notice, I dog-positioned the girl and shoved my cock inside her petite body with a tiny little slit. She grunted in pain, and I felt blood trickle down her thighs. I looked at my wife, and she was looking at me with a crazed expression. I could not have felt more proud. She signaled me to flip her. So I did. I took her in, thrusting her vigorously and kneading her breasts. My gaze never left my wife; she asked me to remove my hands from those spectacular breasts, in case I would burst any veins or puncture her glands. In between turns, I would be asked to shove my dick in her mouth. I was bound to deep-throat the girl and make her gag as ruthlessly as possible. The petite girl in a daze would comply with our wishes.

I would watch her scribble her words effortlessly and with determination. She would smile at me, and I would return it. 

“Place one hand on your hips and flex your torso for me,” she said, looking intently at me.

With my shaft still in her mouth, I placed one hand on my hip and the other in her hair to keep her head bobbing in and out. I looked up and saw pride in her eyes. I was happy.

A long blowjob later, I was asked to fuck her and plant seeds inside of her. And on cue, I did so. The girl vomited violently while I was still inside her. I made sure her cervix didn’t prevent any of my seeds from reaching her tubes.

I was done and tired. She helped me out of the cage and kissed my mouth with her hands delicately on my chest. Oh! She could sell my soul to the devil, and I would utter no word.

She had me leave the cellar and take a shower. It took me less than twenty minutes, and unable to find her anywhere in the house, I walked back into the cellar, and there she was in the cage with her girl. She was wiping the girl's face and genitalia and cooing something to soothe her. I stayed in the shadows and watched her.

She was mumbling a tune and running the wet towel all over the girl, stopping and staring hungrily at the breasts before moving on. The girl started to doze off, after which my wife walked out of the cage along with the washcloth and the dirty water. After placing the cleaning bowl outside the cage, she went back in and pulled the sleeping girl into her arms. She wrapped her arms tightly around the girl and started to rock back and forth.

It wasn’t the first time I had seen her doing something like this; she even does this to the men I seldom lure. She would have those men rest on her bosom and sing them lullabies. What would surprise me every time would be the response she would get from them. Those men would ever so slightly smile, as if they were back in the arms of their mothers, and doze off peacefully. The girls were even more predictably cozy and calm with her. She would kiss them sometimes, and they would reciprocate. Under the heavy doze of medications, along with the girly, soothing voice of my wife, they never had any chance at luck.

This girl with brown hair snuggled into my wife and inched closer to her neck. I witnessed her as she puckered her lips and planted a lingering kiss on my wife’s neck. My wife shivered ever so slightly and giggled. I watched her fondle the girl’s chest as she was being kissed, finally giving in to her desire to suck on those spectacular tits. The petite girl moaned, scrunched her chest around my wife’s head, and allowed my wife to suck on her. My beloved took her time, licking and sucking on each tit and exploring like a child.

“I can’t wait to find out how yummy your milk would be,” my wife remarked, and the petite girl giggled, turning red.

I retreated, slumping on our bed, somewhat enraged. I knew I shouldn't be jealous because I knew they'd be gone once my wife finished with them, but I couldn't help but envy them because of the pampering and care my wife would provide them.

I was on the verge of crying when I heard footsteps outside the door. As soon as she walked into the room, I wiped my eyes and stood up. She held her manuscripts in her hands. She dashed in, tossed the papers on the bed, and hugged me.

"Thank you so much for bringing such a spectacular girl for me," she mumbled into my chest, and I could tell she was thankful. I was overjoyed.

"It is my pleasure, my love. "Would you like to go book shopping?"

She released me from her embrace and looked me in the eyes.

"Yes, yes, yes," she said, pulling me into another hug. "I love you the most."

"Anything for you, my love," I said as I kissed her on the top of her head.

~

That evening, we went around many a bookstore, where she said she felt free to breathe in the scent of paper and musk. I would follow her loosely behind and watch her jump from shelf to shelf, picking out books for her.

I could not help but wonder what new past life lover she would discover anytime soon.