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Not even the late Whitman, with his prose, had anything on the woman who lived next door. She was as well trimmed - from birth to slaughter - as a priceless cut of meat, laden with all the right edges of white fat, paired with deep, crimson meat.

The first time he’d seen her, she was tiptoeing inside the so-called safety of her room… naked.... nubile and… bouncing with each soft step. Delicate, shower-wet flesh jiggling; so base and visceral and… filled with easily opened capillaries. He had stood there, clutching his knife in front of his monitors, frozen in mid-stride as she paused - bare-breasted before the window - and struggled animatedly to unlodge the poorly greased slats.

Hypnotizing. Bouncing… and beautifully disgusting.

No one had ever aroused him in such a basic, terribly normal way.

He’d been about to leave on a joyride down hitchhiker-filled highways, eager to feed the beast after a week with nothing fruitless on his digital logs, and ‘she’ had to go catch his eye; tickle him down in the deepest reaches of his belly.

He decided he wanted more of her than blood, pain, and death the second he saw her put a hand down her black, lace-trimmed panties. It was the first time in a long while he’d gotten an erection without the sight of blood drooling forth from perfect, messy stab wounds. She startled him when she looked towards his house, skimming his darkened window as she masturbated in a squeaky computer chair. There was no way she saw him, but he saw her - watched her finish with her smooth… creamy thighs open before her window as if inviting him in.

As he watched her over the course of a year, The Breather realized there was nothing about her he despised. She kept to herself beside her sole friend whom seemed harmless… useless except for the easy relationship she had with her.

She took the city bus when her car wasn’t necessary, wore bluetooth earbuds instead of blasting loud music and kept her fingers out of dark dalliances despite her… more explicit desires. Over the course of a couple years, The Breather began to notice a change in her.

It wasn’t until he decided to delve deeper into her computer files that he found the extent of her perfection.

She had novels worth of wish-fulfilling fantasies involving faceless men and their weaponized cocks. Her search history proved some of his other suspicions and allowed filthy, wet fantasies to clog the clean enjoyment he took in feeling bodies open around his knives. There were transcripts of her talking about consensual rape on anonymous forums - not the deep web, but shady enough to tickle that violent lust in his belly. For years, she’d been tempted by the idea of baiting men into raping her… not for any other reason than she wanted it.
Her pornographic writings became a fast favorite of his to indulge in when he felt less inclined to go out hunting.

Often he thought about breaking some of his own personally ingrained rules - oftentimes he imagined slipping inside her purposefully unbarred window... to straddle her legs as she slept and feather brush his knife down the hollow of her throat. He wanted to wake her with cold steel stuffed right between stomach and spleen, causing just enough pain to make her pour sweat but nothing angled too dirtily to perforate organ tissue or bleed her dry. He wanted to fuck her while she was impaled to the mattress, unable to move away while he worked himself slowly through soft… deliciously welcoming flesh.

Maybe he wanted to enjoy her without watching the light fade from her eyes… perhaps, he’d merely rape her like she so seemingly desired a man to do. There’d be no need to stab her outright when he could just as easily stab her with his cock.

The emotions - the physical desires - were confusing; vile… and wet.

Killing was his release, art, and purpose… and she’d molded his urges to better fit her own without even realizing it. There was nothing he loved more than running down weak prey and going stab’stab’stabbing, but often when he was steel deep in a meat sack, he thought about her - about the faces she’d make should he give into temptation and run her through...

He should kill her, but The Breather needed her - wanted her… he had to have all of her.

Over the passing months, while she slept, he added more cameras - solar powered - and minuscule enough to go unnoticed by all but the engineers that had built them. From those digital eyes, he watched her. Sometimes, he’d shudder behind a warm mask, staring through blackout drapes as she wrote filth on her computer and… masturbated unapologetically before the open, crystal clear window.

‘Haaa’haaaa’ha’ha’haaaaa…’

He made a point to follow her once the sun went down. A month would go by, and he’d install motion sensors around her home just to keep track of when she left, day or night. Once, he even left a blood-fat victim’s home just to follow her back in time to see the brake lights of her car turn down the intersection. That night, he tailed her to a cesspool social setting. He watched from his tinted windows as a gaggle of men trailed her down a back alley outside the shitty nightclub. That night, The Breather saved her from three men who would do nothing for her twisted little fantasies… only break her, and if anyone was going to ruin her, it would be him.

After leaving three cold bodies beneath a fire escape, he decided that once the time was right, he’d make all her masochistic wishes come true.

Later that night, while she was bathing off the filth from those rotting cretins, he attached a nice off-market satellite tracker to the underside of her car, making sure she’d never evade him like she’d nearly done that night. If any man was going to indulge her in her vices, The Breather would make sure it’d be him.

And so began their games. She would lay her naked body against her window, trying to get his attention and he’d wait until she was asleep… watch her through the glass until deciding it wasn’t yet time. He had rules… he followed them like matter did the laws of physics…

… but as soon as her and that gangly friend logged onto the deep web...

‘Hehehe…’

She knocked on the door marked victim but she would become so much more than that. The Breather knew exactly what she wanted. He’d read all her filth… seen all her confession posts and loved every raw word. He was going to ‘rape’ her until she was nothing but a whimpering pile of juice and gratification.

When he first came for her, she flew from him as expected. She was his prey - like a petrified rabbit, stumbling around her home in panic - and he… the predator hunting for sustenance. She put on a good show for him, only to wiggle just so once he got her on the floor, allowing him unbridled access to her juicy depths where he lost himself and… came inside her…

The pleasure of her insides… the sweet sound of her begging, sobs and unconscious confessions as he pummeled her body… it was pure rapture.

He had not planned on unloading his semen inside her, but caught himself after the first few blissful jets. The Breather knew enough about her to be sure that the consequences of that act were slim to none. Still, a part of him detested the mess and the knowledge that she could bring him to such a… violent, blind state without welcoming a knife in her belly. No… his knife became his cock, and she loved being stabbed over and over… and over again. The best part was that he could return. He could kill her with his cock as often as he wanted and her body would never run cold.

The second time he kicked her door down, he surprised her.

The Breather didn’t concern himself with sloppy messes. He relished the wet slime of cum and all the warm glistening fluids he could fuck out of her; baptized in her essence. Everything he did to her, she loved. No matter how rough he gave it to her, how much she cried and sobbed and bled or begged him to have mercy, she almost always ended up saying something beautiful when she came.

He was in love with her the moment he accidently cut her deeper than intended - hot blood pouring forth like lava rupturing from the center of the earth - and all she did was whisper a moist, mindless ‘yes’ followed by a gut-twisting ‘I love you.’

So perfect… so soft and disgusting and… manipulative...

She had him right where she wanted him. The Breather was addicted to her perversions as much as he was to his own private, ancient release with the blade. Sometimes, he thought about stabbing her through the spinal column, severing nerves and ending her for good, but a world without her seemed empty… worthless. The urge was minor and fleeting, and only once did he ever truly want to kill her but that was old news; soggy headlines beside the curb of the road. His desire to watch her body grow cold was nothing compared to his need to see her happy and broken in that state of post-orgasmic pain.

He knew she loved him, even if he had to dig a knife against her throat to get her to admit it after the first time she confessed her true feelings. She worshipped him the same as he did her and hearing her say it made him cum all the harder, so he made sure the words were on her lips every time. The louder - the harder to produce her vocalized affections - the better.

Tonight, The Breather waits outside her front door, recalling the past several months they’ve shared together and the most recent week he’s been without her body writhing around his cock, imagining her sleeping soundly… so unaware of what’s about to happen to her.

He stands still on her front porch, standing comfortably in a dark hoodie and slacks, surgical gloves tight over his sleeves and the trademark surgeon’s mask donned. Under the darkness of a waning moon, behind the mask, he grins. There’s no one surveying these worthless streets on a quiet Monday night - no one awake to see him stroking his blade against a rough thigh; testing its sharpness.

The Breather savors the moment before beginning the hunt and pockets the knife before promptly kicking her door in. Wood barely splinters this time. The feeble lock she ‘repaired’ rips easily from the frame and somewhere in her bedroom, he can hear her bed springs squeal as she lurches awake with a rattling scream.

Something clatters to her wooden floor, smashes in a soggy crunch and, only when he’s hunching in her doorway, does The Breather realize it was a glass of water from her bedside table and not some crack in his psyche again. She’s sitting up in bed - a deer caught in encroaching headlights - and his cock stiffens for the first time in several days. Only she has managed to bring him such sexual thrill… such ‘basic’ lust. Only something as perfect as she can make him so weak.

“You can’t! I’m still-”

“Menstruating,” he croaks with voracious hunger.

Yes, he knows she is midway through her shedding. He doesn’t care. Perhaps, most certainly, he’s been haunted by the fantasy of how his pale, grossly proportioned cock - something she craves - will look streaked in all that blood. It could be that is why he’s here tonight and not tomorrow night or the next.

The Breather inhales unflatteringly - half choking on his own relish as if he can smell the blood already - and slips the knife from his hoodie pocket.

He cackles as she throws back the covers, revealing a thin tank top and black underwear. One flash of the blade in the moonlight pouring from her window, and she transforms into a blur of racing limbs. A rabbit running from the predator. She is the personification of the chase - the hunt. Like a Goddess luring him to his downfall. He’ll allow it. If anyone could break him, he’d rather it be her and to be honest… she’s already ruined him beyond repair so it’s only fitting he does to her body what she’s done to his mind.

Tonight, she must not want it as madly as he does, because she fights him tooth and nail, raking her thin nails near his bulging eyes and over his temple. Well acted words of refusal only imbue his muscles with more blood. Her fighting and begging makes The Breather stronger.

Her feeble claws sting but do not draw blood.

A stiff knee to her abdomen sends her buckling, falling to the floor beside the ajar bathroom with a pained grunt and more weak little notions of so-called mercy. She half crawls through her bathroom archway, elbow banging against the frame, saying things about how she’s bleeding and she can’t and ‘please… please, don’t.’

The way she haphazardly crawls away from him, untucks a drab sheet from a full length leaning mirror; trimmed in fake gold leaflets and cherubs posted at the corners, carrying curtains in their arms. Suddenly, he is presented with himself and her bare legs moving across the wooden floor.

The Breather pauses to scrutinize his own reflection, but the sight of his smoothness covered in black and sterile cotton only troubles him for a moment before he snarls, bends his knees and drags her back from the bathroom tile by a kicking ankle. He stares openly - eyes eager twin orbs - at the junction of her thighs while her doughy backside bounces. She is all sweet, soft flesh filled with blood and her insides are leaking it already… and he can’t wait to see red painting his groin as if he were one with his knife. The smell is already cloying.

“Sshhh,” he demands, only to get a high sob in return as she scratches the wood while he drags her backward. Her flimsy sleeveless top rides up her stomach, exposing various states of healing bruises and cuts all along her back. She’s covered in his efforts… like a painting with raised brush strokes. She’s so much more beautiful than anything Titian could ever hope to create.

Her tear-streaked face catches the moonlight in the mirror along with his hunched, knife-wielding form. As though frozen, The Breather is stricken by the sight. He locks eyes with her in the mirror; dark, pupil-swollen browns to her wet, streaming bloodshot eyes. In that moment, her lips quirk despite the tears, and he falls deeper in love with her.

Yes… he’ll fuck her here…

The Breather wants to take her from behind just like this. He wants to watch her get fucked to pieces inside the mirror where she won’t be able to escape his gaze nor his bowed form while he destroys her.

She starts crying sweetly when he shoves her down by the spine - knuckles denting a bruise near the middle of her back - and proceeds to slide his blade between the swell of her upper ass and black bloody cotton. She hitches with fear, goes still and repeats ‘no’ over and over beneath tears and snot as he carves the thin barrier away. He snickers at the little smear of blood along her womanly flesh and dances the knife tip through soft, sticky wrinkles until she’s panting with panicked eyes aimed up at him through the mirror. He grins beneath the mask, watching the way his cheekbones rise with mirth and her eyes dance with eagerness despite the fake pleadings she sings for him. Whatever shame she embodied beforehand is gone now. Blood, however slimy, should never be shameful.

Slowly, The Breather replaces his hand at her spine with the knife, angling it dangerously over a kidney. He fingers her slit, coiling the bloody string against her folds in a finger, and drags the drenched cotton out. It makes a thick, wet sound as he tosses it on the bathroom tile with a grunt.

“Come forth the darkness where opposite equals attract - never stopping, always churning,” he serenades while her blood flows beneath the knife and his gloved fingers pull down his zipper, “... always sex. Perfumed blood is my aphrodisiac.”

“You-you’re-” she begins only for the knife to dent her flesh.

He waits, gives her those few seconds to show him whether she really wants this or not, and finds nothing but silent, streaming tears and open features with such passionate, damp eyes that love him madly. He loves her so… and so he grabs one soft ass cheek and wrenches her open; bloody and wet.

The Breather hisses as he feeds his cock through the soft swell of her - the crimson cavern of tight, hot walls - and watches the way her eyes bulge as he fills her beyond full. She takes it all. She swallows each inch despite the way her body tenses in pain and weeps as he fucks her roughly. The blood that stains his cock is vivid despite the pervasive darkness. Dark, clotted red streaks his cock in thick and thin paints. She stains him as he does her.

The knife digs through the top layer of skin as he smacks his hips against her ass, bracing a palm on the floor beside her waist. Her fingers run pale against the wood floorboards, losing blood as it leaks forth between stainless steel and flesh-coated hardness.

The Breather fucks her until pain brightens her face - until she weeps sweat and mucus and tears that run like rivers down swollen cheeks. A delicious mess of fluids and gore.

Her back blossoms with weeping streams of brackish red… the same juicy color that warps his pistoning cock. That spongy bundle of pronounced nerves at the back of her cunt swells. She finishes as expected, washing him in musky droplets and harsh tangy blood. Fluids drip to the floor, but he ignores the pang of lust it runs through him, and lays his body flat over hers, shoving her into the floor.

She whimpers and gasps as he sweeps the knife under her throat until she’s forced to lift her chin up; scalp nestled between his neck and shoulder.

He watches her through the mirror, enjoying the sight of their bipartite faces; one opened-mouthed and gasping, nearly disoriented with sensation and his own… disgustingly large eyes that relish the visual feast. Blood and cum glues his groin to her ass, making wet sticky spanks of noise and squelching sounds that only make all the fine lubrication of blood and female ejaculate funnel his cock to the furthest, most horrific reaches she owns.

“...harder,” she begs him; throat working against the blade.

She stares into his eyes like an addict does the empty distance during a dope high and The Breather inhales through his teeth until the mask is sucked tight against his face and he’s fucking her with shallow, deep motions until the bulb of her cervix is straining against the head of his cock. In seconds, he’s emptying himself within her where she sheds and bleeds and finds hell, heaven and whatever other lovely sins she has inside herself.

“...cum in me-fuck… cum… fuck,” she gags over the knife; lips open in a weak silent parody of a scream.

The Breather turns his face against her cheek, hisses, and pants through his pleasure. He kisses her between cotton, wanting to taste her flesh again without the mask - without the barrier he’s put in place.

For now, he’ll suffice.

She whispers her love and he growls his in turn, letting the last leak of semen awash her sore cervix. It is… as good as killing. In some ways… her painful pleasures are better. She is easier than killing and elicits similar joys.

For the first time in too long, he grabs her around the eyes - blocking her view - and tugs the mask down to kiss her; still hard inside her swollen flesh. Salty tears bathe his tongue. Nothing outside of her sweet meat and fluids tastes so good. His hunger renews… his cock remains stiff and despite the way she cries against his mouth and leaks tears behind rubber fingers, The Breather grins and kisses her as he fucks the blood from her body.

One day, he’ll kill her, but only when he’s ready to kill himself… and he’s made no plans to end his fun anytime soon. There is still so much left of her to explore, and subsequently destroy.