The hum of the electric motor lowering the window reminded Clara of a vibrator. Tingles raced down her spine and into her vagina. A wet spot grew in Clara’s panties.
“Uh…can I help you lady?” The hooker asked eyeing the inside of Clara’s car. Dressed in jet black thigh-high boots the prostitute also wore white fishnet stockings, a purple mini skirt that showed off a red thong tucked firmly up the crack of her round yet firm ass and an ashen camisole which gave her customers a sneak peek of her quarter sized nipples. “Are you lost?”
“No, I’m not.” Clara answered. “I… was wondering…”
“You looking for a date?” The hooker smiled. “I charge extra for fucking you and your husband. Is that what you looking for?”
Clara covered her wedding ring with her right hand. “No…no not my husband. Just me. Just you and me. At my house, though.”
“We don’t need to go back to your house. There’s a motel right around the corner.”
“No, please I would feel better at my place. I…I want to tie you up on my bed.” Clara grinned as she thought about her strap-on dildo cloaked with razor blades. “I want to strap my cock on and fuck you.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “Here, take this. I have ten more of these at home for you.”
The hooker’s face lit up. “Sure baby. For that kind of money I don’t mind being fucked by a woman.”
The blades ripped flesh as Clara stroked deep. The hooker screamed. Clara yelled. “You like fucking wives’ husbands. Huh?” She forced the dildo in deeper. “Answer me.”
Clara pumped her hips faster. The hooker’s cries faded. “Answer me you fucking whore. You like fucking other wives’ husbands?” The hooker never answered. Clara had fucked the life out of her.
“You look beautiful.” Clara’s reflection spoke. She stood in front of a full-length mirror nude. Blood dripped from her strap-on. An hour passed. Sixty minutes of admiring herself filled the void of her husband’s lack of admiration for her. “Who needs him?”
“Time for you to get out of my house.” Clara grabbed the handles of the dolly, wheeled the body out of her farmhouse and to the entrance of the storm cellar. She yanked the underground shelter’s door open. A putrid smell of piss, shit and death smacked her in the face causing her to gag.
“Clara, please. You gotta stop this.” Duncan, Clara’s husband, pleaded. His chains only allowed him as far as the bottom step. “Clara, please let me out. I…I can help you…honey. I’ll help you get rid of the bodies. No one will ever know. Please, Clara. I’ll get you help.”
“Here’s another ‘lady of the night’ for you.” Clara tipped the handcart forward and the dead hooker rolled downstairs to Duncan’s feet. She reached for the storm cellar’s door and laughed. “You…you can help me? I don’t need your help, honey.” She slammed the crypt back into darkness.
Bio: Alex writes and breathes in Toledo, Ohio. His favorites are Dean Koontz and Joe Lansdale.