1.

Lucille straddled the stumpy, pale body of Walcott Jenkins, accountant, and threw her long glossy black hair back over her right shoulder. She lifted her shoulders, causing the hair around her face to ease forwards, to rest softly under high cheek-bones as if to cup them, and she pouted in an almost mocking way. Walcott Jenkins groaned, lifting his bony knee-caps slightly, allowing himself to feel her dark-skinned weight pinning him down. He liked it, although he had started the sex games as the dominant partner, skirting the limitations of what Lucille would allow (she had specified nothing kinky), by spanking her buttocks with a soft, plaid, lounge slipper.

Walcott was a timid, cruel little man, who only ever got the chance to exercise his true nature when he paid somebody to let him. He was middle-aged and unmarried, with a tan-line setting off his balding head where the LA sun had -- for the last couple of weeks -- beaten uselessly against the rim of the cheap hat he always wore out. And even though he had been handed the keys to the mob-owned, duplex penthouse apartment on Central Park West, he had brought Lucille to the big brass bed in the guest-room out of fear.

       Lucille writhed slowly on his penis, glancing around the room in barely concealed boredom. She had guessed that, given Walcott’s delicacy around the place and the fact they were in the guest-room, he had been loaned the apartment from a friend. It struck her as odd that somebody like Walcott had the decency to fuck a whore in the guest-room rather than in the master-bedroom, or even on one of the expensive sofa’s in the lounge. Lucille knew men, and Walcott didn’t strike her as the decent type at all. After she’d snapped at him for hurting her with the slipper (a bad business move if she’d read him wrong), he had gone the other way completely and become submissive. He hadn’t done it for her sake, she knew that. He had done it because she had excited him. This way it would be over quicker; and she had already negotiated a price.

Walcott groaned again and grabbed at her large breasts. Lucille slapped him across the face. Walcott groaned some more and grappled like a child, flushing with excitement. She pinned his arms back and snarled at him, real color coming to her cheeks through genuine dislike. She worked him.

        Lucille’s temper reminded Walcott of his inability to assert himself in day to day life, and this sense of his own weakness was almost electric in its erotic intensity. Walcott was pathetic; and Lucille was a good enough whore to make him appreciate the fact.

Lucille saw the killer first, but froze. It was the last thing she ever did and she did it with Walcott Jenkins still erect inside her. The killer grabbed Lucille’s long dark hair from behind and pulled her head back slightly before pushing it forward to meet the blade as it came to her. He shoved the blade up and into her neck, ripping through the larynx, slashing and jabbing in a controlled frenzy, severing a major artery before removing the blade and stepping quickly back.

        Her body rose, spraying blood and releasing Walcott’s penis as it did. She looked blankly ahead, her body swaying. She tried to climb from the bed but collapsed across Walcott, burbling and gasping. Warm blood splattered across Walcott’s cold flesh and began building quickly into a pool against him. Walcott grinned pathetically (as he had grinned a thousand times before whenever somebody more powerful than him did something he didn’t like). To Walcott, it seemed as if some excruciating joke were being played. There was no sense of reality. He tried to lift himself, but the weight of Lucille’s body held him down. The killer stepped out of sight, somewhere behind, and Walcott found himself becoming excited again. His penis was stuck under the body but it jerked and he urinated.

        Walcott struggled weakly as a warm urine-stain opened itself silently through the blanket and the killer stepped forward and stood over him, laughing inwardly. Walcott looked up into the killer’s eyes. When the return gaze showed emptiness, with only a spark of sardonic amusement to hint at humanity, he began begging and whimpering. Reality dawned. The killer responded by pulling the pillow out roughly from under Walcott’s head, pressing it hard onto his face and holding it there.

It didn’t take long.

This done, an uncomfortable white wicker chair was used for a moment’s rest, and a strawberry flavoured lollipop was removed from a sweeties bag containing several lollipops. The killer had intended to throw the lollipops casually on or around the bodies, but Walcott Jenkins deserved better than that.