6. CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

Dahlia

" G lgltgltglt." Gunner's fingers with his dirty fingernails grip the rope I have around his neck.

We're standing in my baking room, where there are no Happy DeathDay cupcakes. There's only me, my arms raised, my hands tugging on the rope as hard as I can.

"What'd you say, sunshine?" I kick the back of Gunner's knee, bringing us both to the floor. "Didn't hear you over here," I say while we go down, me on top of him.

He lands headfirst onto a splotch of frosting that must've slipped from one of the piping bags. I inwardly chide myself for missing it.

Gunner's body thrashes left and right, trying to flip me over.

"Never." My biceps flex as I pull harder on the rope .

No way is he getting out of this alive. So what if I weigh about fifty pounds less than him?

I'm a hell of a lot stronger. I lift sugar and flour bags, cupcake racks, milk, cream, and other heavy shit on a daily basis. I have no other employees. I don't let any supplier inside. My back-back room is private.

It's all on me.

A deceptively small and soft woman. A woman who has biceps of steel beneath the sleeves of her dresses. A woman whose mind has been twisted beyond repair by pain and grief and the unfairness of it all.

Beneath my sweet veneer, I'm a killing machine.

Only Tyler saw that. My sleuth stalker. He almost broke down until Gunner showed up. I almost had him.

"Bitch." Gunner rattles beneath me a second time. His voice is hoarse, words choked. "I'll fuck you up so bad, you won't remember your name."

I shouldn't be thinking about Tyler at a time like this. He's a distraction. A wonderful one, like finding a way to turn human flesh into powder and feeding it to the neighborhood's stray dogs.

Another struggle from beneath me.

You're distracted , the warning blares in my head.

"I am," I agree with myself.

My knees press to the floor. The tips of my black Chucks sink into the space behind Gunner's knees.

And I tug. I tug harder than the stray dogs fight over the skin of my targets every evening during October. Over the powdered flesh that I sprinkle on the dog food every morning. Over the bones I let them have once October's over.

Gunner continues to struggle.

"You got big lungs on you, mister," I snarl.

A strand of my blonde hair breaks loose. It falls over my eyes, and I ignore it. Much like I ignore the fucker's convulsions.

"This won't do you any good now. Matter of fact"—last huffs of air fleet through his mashed mouth—"this is your last fight. And you lost."

One, two, three, and Gunner passes out.

In his defense, he gave a good fight.

Sucks for him that I've never lost one. Not since Uncle Al.

I won't either. Ever again.

Gunner blinks when I slap him. His eyes open.

And he spits at me. "Bitch."

Words and spit. Nothing new here.

Gunner can't do much else, seeing he's bound to a wooden chair I have nailed to the center of the back-back room. His hands are locked behind him with black zip ties, his ankles shackled to the legs of the chair.

He isn't naked or anything. His cock won't be damaged.

I want to, for sure. It's a fitting punishment for perverts, cheaters and rapists. Gunner is a pedophile. A molester in the making .

But I won't chop his dick off. I already have one of these people on my list. Boy, what a delicious punishment awaits him . Not Gunner, though.

This one gets to keep his clothes and, consequently, his cock.

Same can't be said for his other offending body parts.

"That's not a way to talk to a lady." Tap, tap, tap , my scraper goes on his nose. "Then again, you've never been good at respecting women, have you, Gun-Gun?"

His wide eyes tell me I'm right.

As if I need his approval.

I've been stalking him. I saw what I saw.

He made his wife and daughter cry.

I'm here to end it.

Going to the police would have been a waste of time. Gunner is just another Al. Just another lowlife who can bullshit his way out of jail. Besides, killing him myself is much more entertaining.

"Help," he screams. "Help me. Someone, help."

Of course. Sweet Mary and Joseph, do they all have to be this predictable?

"Soundproof." Tap, tap, tap . I bump on his nose again. He keeps on screaming. "No one's coming, dummy."

No one but Tyler, maybe, who was still outside when I ushered Gunner in.

Tyler.

Since Gunner is bound to the chair and can't hurt me, I let my mind wander. Funny, how I had my pussy licked before I had my first kiss. Unconscious oral, sure. Still oral. Tyler had his tongue on me. His lips. A lot.

Fuck, I don't even wipe myself for hours after I'm back from his apartment. I rub my fingers on my juices and his saliva on my skin. Push them back inside me. Make him a part of me.

Kissing him? I haven't dared to do that. I've been waiting for him to do it for real.

Holding back has been a struggle. But at least I get to visit him when he's not visiting me.

He started doing it when I was nineteen. The first time I caught him, I almost shanked him. Then I smelled the faint hint of his cologne and heard the words little savage coming out of his mouth. Strained. Choked. Desperate.

His visits aren't random; I've learned with time.

My sleuth and stalker loves his patterns and has a few of his own. Every last day of the month, he creeps up to my place.

Other than September and October.

In September, Tyler never leaves his apartment at night. Doesn't come visit me.

My guess is, he's preparing himself for October. Or he's trying to convince himself to stay away from me.

Doesn't work.

October will forever be our month.

He can't help how the fact I'm killing people gets him hard. I'm awake for some of it, for his grunts and all the cum that he empties on me. Other nights, I'm not. On the mornings after, I only get to lick his orgasm off my lips or my belly.

Soon, hopefully, I'll get to have him awake .

"I'm going to kill you, bitch." Gunner spits in my face again, ripping me away from my sweet, sweet thoughts.

"Rude. You'll pay for that." My evil cackle echoes in the soundproofed room. "For barging into my happy place."

"What the hell are you talking ab—"

He doesn't get to finish. I grip him by his chin and bottom lip and pull down, hard. The heavy-duty scissors on the metal table next to me are within reach. I wield them with one hand.

They shine bright under the dim lights of my punishment chamber.

Even though Gunner screams and murmurs curses the best he can, I still hear the sound the blades make when I snap them.

Snip. Snap.

"Your tongue." I hover over him, casting a shadow over his ugly, abusive face. "Give it to me."

At that, he slams his mouth shut. Nostrils flaring. Eyes burning with rage.

"You don't deserve it, you know." The more I tug on his chin, the more he resists. "You've been putting your tongue to bad, bad use. Other than beating up your wife, you talk to her like crap. Saying perverted shit to your daughter. Without her consent. She hates you, and you go on, being the piece of shit you are."

Confusion flashes on his features.

"You seriously think no one sees?"

He closes his mouth tighter.

I anticipated this .

I'm calm as I pocket my giant scissors to the front of my black murder apron. Smiling as I reach for two frosting piping bags.

"One cinnamon frosting and one chocolate mint for our special boy over here."

A touch of frosting drips from the opening of the bags. Reminds me of Tyler's leaking cock when I grind my pussy on his face while he sleeps.

Since Gunner's busy, his jaw working overtime to snap his mouth closed, I go down memory lane.

I'd been sitting out here on Tyler's fire escape for long minutes, waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting until the dedicated software engineer slash sleuth finished writing his blog.

The busy man had been keeping tabs on a serial killer who'd been leaving hints on his next kills on FyndUsHere. He'd been doing so for the last six months or so.

The police couldn't connect the murders.

Tyler did. Tyler always did.

As soon as the notification from his blog popped up, I read the entire thing on my phone. Gobbled it. Got wet from how Tyler had tapped into the killer's mind by tapping into his own dark side.

And he had one, I found out, as I kept reading his blog.

"This guy gets off on killing both men and women. I bet he goes home, safe and sound. Coming so hard knowing no one's onto him. I'm here to make sure every future orgasm he has will be in prison. A forced one while he gets railed in the ass."

My eyes watered at the vivid imagery.

By the time I finished reading, the light in his window had been switched off. Thirty more minutes, and I climbed inside. The list of things I had to do before Halloween was a long one, so I had to be quick on that September night.

Next to Tyler's bed, I removed my Chucks and leggings. Bunched my black maxi skirt up to my waist.

His turn. I pushed his gray blanket down to his knees, revealing the ridges of his abs, his large albeit soft cock in his gray sweats. My Tyler slept on his back. Always slept on his back. I hadn't seen anything other than his front, ever.

Didn't matter. It was his mouth I was after. And I took it. Always.

I straddled his body. My feet were braced on either side of his face while I looked at his cock as it began to stir. It was incredible. The mere scent of my arousal—while he slept—had Tyler hardening.

More wetness pooled between my thighs as a response to him. Goosebumps trailed all over my skin when I lowered my pussy to his mouth. His touch in that sensitive spot was delicious.

Not as delicious as watching his cock jerk and thicken and throb.

For me.

Carefully, I pushed his sweats and boxers down to his balls. Freed his thick length.

The need to have his cock in my pussy was ever-strong. The desire to wrap my lips and lick the bead of precum was driving me nuts. I could practically taste it.

Wanting him had been imprinted in my DNA since I could remember myself.

Tyler loved me back. So much so that he'd cut me off to save my life. Backward logic, I know, because without Ty, I had no life. But his head had been fucked up. By staying away from him, I protected him too. From another meltdown.

I still needed him. Fucking his face while he slept was a compromise.

A wonderful compromise. I rocked my hips, took his mouth softly. Maddeningly softly. Anything faster, any more pressure I'd put on his lips, and I'd get caught. He'd wake up.

But I was losing my mind with need.

As I fucked his hot mouth and rubbed myself on his scruff, I raised a hand to my throat. Curled my fingers around it. Around the snake and scars. Choked myself.

That felt better. So. Much. Better.

It could be something Tyler did. He would've taken his anger out on the world like that, with me as the recipient. He'd pleasure me and find his release.

Just another perfect example of what a great couple we'd make.

The less air flowing into my lungs, the tighter my stomach coiled. My nipples grazed the inside of my bra, and my clit was wet and hot from Tyler's mouth.

When I finally came, I almost blacked out. Almost. I lifted my ass higher so Tyler wouldn't wake from how I clenched on fucking nothing. Bit my tongue so hard I nearly drew blood.

Before I left, I took the liberty of swiping my tongue over Tyler's cock. A quick lick of his precum. Salty and oh-so-him. Kissed the tip. And bounced home.

Fucking amazing.

"What's wrong with your eyes?" Gunner grew balls while I was in dreamland. "You're fucked in the head. Let me go."

He thinks that because I'm crazy, he has the upper hand .

Better think again.

"Earlier, I asked you—politely, if I might add—to give me your tongue." I take my place in front of Gunner, aiming the dripping frosting at his face.

Another splotch of cinnamon frosting lands on his lips. Now that I'm not holding the scissors, Gunner's turned brave. He darts his tongue out, licking it. Grinning.

"You've been rude, Gunner." I pretend he didn't just taunt me. "Refusing me like that. Very, very disrespectful."

My words and mocking tone have the impact of the scissors.

Gunner's amusement is snuffed out. His attempt at being rough is an epic fail. The terror in his eyes is a precious moment I want to capture. Send it to his wife and daughter. Let them have this victory. Bathe in it.

Same way I rejoiced when I put an end to the sick fuck that was my uncle.

Unfortunately, a photo would incriminate me. Law enforcement would have my ass for that. I'd like my ass to stay where it is, thank you very much.

Where Tyler can reach it.

"You're going to d-d-drown me with frosting?" He finally sees what's happening here. His chin quivers. Eyebrows high up on his forehead. "I w-w-won't open my mouth for you, cunt. You'll never be able to put them there."

He slams it shut again. Coward.

"Nah, I won't put these"—I shake the piping bags—"inside your mouth. You'll open that baby up for me all on your own. "

In one swift movement, I shove both open ends of the frosting piping bags into his nostrils. Gunner's first reaction is shock. He stays put while I sink the bags as deep as I can get them. His eyes bulge when I tilt his face up so he's looking at the ceiling.

His shock lasts a few more seconds. That's it. Because then I squeeze the bags tight. Frosting fills his nose, overflowing them.

Chocolate mint and cinnamon scents are everywhere, leaking out of the man's nostrils and onto his lips. His chin. The front of his shirt.

Do I stop? Hell no. I squeeze harder.

My lips curve into a sneer as Gunner's first tears show. He shakes his head, a forceful movement that's meant to get me off him.

He'd like that.

I would not.

My laugh is harsh and cruel. I think I'm cackling.

More frosting everywhere. Splashing on the black tarp. On Gunner's jeans.

The whites of Gunner's eyes turn red as the veins in them explode. A second before his mouth opens and a scream bursts out of it, along with a little bit of frosting that has traveled up his nose.

"Stooooop," he shrieks. "For fuck's sake, stoooooop."

"My pleasure." I discard the bags, fishing out my scissors. "My"—taking advantage of his panicked state, I lock his tongue between my thumb and index finger—"fucking"—pull it tight, and—"pleasure."

Snap.

Blood gushes out in rivers. Kind of like he's vomiting it.

"Cool." I tilt my head, marveling at the gruesome sight while dangling his tongue in his face. "Would you look at that, Gunner? You added strawberry topping to my cinnamon and chocolate mint frosting. Fits perfectly."

He's less impressed than I am. Doesn't stop screaming and shaking his head.

"Shit. Something's missing."

He gurgles and I leave him for the extra sprinkles container that waits for me on top of the table. The gurgling sounds change, and I whip my head back to check he hasn't fainted.

Nope, no fainting. Just vomiting his dinner. Too bad. I bet one of the girls worked hard on that.

Oh, well. Back to the last part of my torture for the night.

The sprinkles container. And a funnel.

"Found it," I exclaim cheerfully, unscrewing the top of the container. "This is what's missing from our human cupcake. The Happy DeathDay sprinkles."

Gunner is seizing. Vomiting and rattling in the chair.

Seizing isn't dead.

I shove the neck of the funnel into Gunner's mouth, tipping his face up to the ceiling. The sprinkles container is a bit heavy to hold in one hand, but I manage.

"Much better." The sprinkles go down the funnel, rushing down Gunner's throat. "This is the missing piece. You'll make the best cupcake and your filthy mouth will get punished. Two for one. "

While I hum the chorus of Elliot Lee's song "Sicko," I shake my hips, pouring an extra dose of sprinkles into Gunner's mouth. "All you can eat, right?"

The fucking miserable excuse of a human dies shortly after that. His body ejects the excess sprinkles, blood, and puke when I remove the funnel.

I laugh as I release him. Keep singing to myself as I place him on the tarp and begin the task of removing his clothes, then skinning him. Each patch of Gunner's skin goes into the bowls for the sweet, stray dogs.

There are five of them. Coco, Nilla, Cookie, Butter, and Scotch. My little helpers who annihilate the evidence of someone other than me were ever here.

After years of doing this, I'm skilled at peeling meat off bones.

Gunner's bones go to the freezers in the basement below the shop. The meat goes into the commercial freeze dryer so it'd be easy to grind it into powder tomorrow morning.

That's a lot of work, but it's worth it.

When I'm done, I carry the bowls full of skin to the back door. Instead of unlocking it, I stand still. Close my eyes. Tune in to Tyler, searching with my soul for any sign of him.

Some days in October, I swear I feel him here. A low hum beneath my skin. A continuous buzz that alerts me of his presence. Of my stalker.

Today, I come up empty.

He'll be back .

I whistle for the poor, hungry dogs.

This year, he'll be mine. This year, he'll see reason .

He has to. Or I'll force him myself.