He liked the knife; it was his favourite. A Wusthof chef's knife, he'd bought it online and it hadn't been cheap. He liked it's shape, the fit of the handle, the grind on the long cutting edge.
He liked the way the knife cut.
He liked the way the knife penetrated.
He especially liked the way the knife could not be traced, did not have to be registered. No ballistic flies on her. Their forensics were useless. They would have to find her. They would never find her.
As always, he felt himself grow erect as he sharpened her.
The anticipation, the preparation. Sometimes they were almost as good as the climax to come.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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