The Dancer

Good day, everyone. Please allow me to introduce myself briefly.

I am a married woman; I live happily with my husband in Munich and work in retail. Outside of my job, I volunteer for a neighborhood assistance program and walk dogs at our local animal shelter. My husband is a lawyer specializing in tenancy law. That covers the official part.

Our sex life is fantastic. My husband is an artist in bed. His staying power is indescribable. Depending on the "fucking mode" he’s in, he can hold back his orgasm for so long that I start to doubt my own skills, and I try every trick in the book to "force" him to cum. I suspect that in his youth, he was taught by an Indian guru how to give his partner maximum satisfaction and boost her pleasure to immeasurable heights before reaching the peak of ecstasy himself! If that is the goal, he succeeds every time. It’s not unusual for me to have two or three orgasms before he finally cums inside me. But then there’s the mode where he wants me to dominate him—a wish I cannot fulfill, or rather, one I don't *want* to fulfill. That’s when my husband can get mean; if he earnestly asks me to dominate him and I refuse, he punishes me. He drives me almost to the point of orgasm, then pulls his cock out of my pussy without warning, waits for the waves of pleasure to subside, and starts the whole game over again. When I beg him to finally put me out of my misery, he just smiles and repeats the game two or three more times before finally granting me release. This orgasm of mine is so intense that I’ve actually fainted from it more than once. Thank you, my orgasm master!

Now for the unofficial part. Alongside my normal life, I lead another life—one that might seem "abnormal" in the eyes of others. Would you be shocked to learn that I work as a contract killer—a hitwoman? If so, please stop reading—you *would* be shocked!

So—I assume you *are* reading these lines—which implies you’re interested in my dark side. The origins might lie in the TV series *Dexter*—specifically the concept of fighting "evil" through vigilantism. But how does one become a hitwoman? Let me say this upfront: it wasn't something I was born into. And no—unlike some people, I didn't harbor dark fantasies from my youth onwards.

The trigger likely stems from my volunteer work in neighborhood assistance; I was sometimes confronted with situations where common sense dictates, "This is absolutely unacceptable." I am well aware that my ability to help in such cases is limited. No, actually, I should say my ability *was* limited.

Did I mention that I love to read and do so voraciously? I’m not tied to specific genres—I devour whatever I can get my hands on. One day, at a book exchange point (a converted phone booth—if you even remember those things / haha), I found a bag containing several paperbacks that had seen better days. One of them was about a hitwoman who—for reasons I won't go into here—made a living eliminating men, using her body as a weapon in the process. To this day, I can't explain why the book's content captivated me so completely. But the fact that I repeatedly dreamed of being the hitwoman described in the book—an "avenger" "delivering" justice for the "victims"—was a rather absurd notion, don't you think? Yet, the mere fact that this idea took root in my mind gave me pause. Should I seek professional help for this? One thing was clear to me from the start: I absolutely did not want to drag my husband into this "problem."

I did some research online—and then ventured into the darknet. To my surprise, I found both literature and films on the subject of "hitwomen" there. Perhaps conducting that research was a mistake—it drew me ever deeper into the "dark side" of my imagination. I cannot deny that both the literature and, especially, the films on the darknet aroused me intensely. And although I have a very fulfilling sex life with my husband—we are both very open-minded and enjoy trying new things—I always felt a strong urge whenever I watched those films or read those documents on the darknet. Whenever my husband wasn't home—. ..after work—I would satisfy myself. Perhaps it was linked to the rush, but my hand and my vagina were in perfect harmony—and the orgasms were wonderful. Whenever my husband was “available, ” we would go at it until we were utterly exhausted. At first, he was surprised by the intensity with which I rode him—but he loved it, and he, too, would work himself up into a frenzy! It sounds perverse—but during those phases, I would fantasize about killing another man while having sex. I hope this won’t bother my husband—but I always pictured an international movie star! At the time, the idea of ​​actually killing a man while fucking seemed absurd to me.

Eventually, however, I reached a point where I was no longer satisfied with mere fantasies. I wanted to experience in real life what it was like to kill a man during sex and whether it was just as sexually arousing as it was in my imagination—or during sex with my husband! If you are shocked now—please believe me, I was too. And at that point, I decided to consider seeking professional help. I really did intend to do it—please believe me. I truly meant to! Or so I thought! You can probably guess that things turned out quite differently. If you are interested in how the story continued—then read on. Otherwise, for the sake of your peace of mind, please close this document and forget everything you have read so far!

The First Time (Killing My First Victim)

As I mentioned earlier, I had intended to seek professional help—for the reason you know—but then it happened. Without any signs, without warning—like a bolt of lightning—I unintentionally found myself in a situation where I turned my fantasies into reality. As I mentioned at the start, I work in retail. At the EDEKA store (one of the largest in Munich), our "junior boss" wasn't exactly popular with the female staff. He always walked a fine line—not that he made overt sexual advances toward us, but little things—eye contact, the tone of his voice when speaking to women, the way he’d look at us, and other behaviors—made him unpopular with the female colleagues. We had—and I emphasize *had*—a female apprentice who was very sensitive and couldn't cope with it. She had once dropped a hint about this to me—something I unfortunately didn't probe with the necessary care at the time.

Our apprentice’s suicide shocked the entire staff. When our "junior boss" feigned sympathy at her funeral—and I do mean *feigned*; he never cared about other people's feelings otherwise—I knew he had to be punished. It was also an opportunity for me to finally test whether my fantasy would work in real life. He had behaved the same way toward me as he had toward my colleagues. I suspected he had the hots for me—which I found understandable, as I’m a real "looker, " as they say, and often drew the gaze of strange men.

It wasn't hard to lure the junior boss—let's call him Michael—into a sex trap. I approached him directly, and he took the bait immediately. My husband was away for the weekend on a business trip to a conference. Michael lived alone in a house near Munich. Getting an invitation for a cozy get-together—just the two of us—turned out to be easier than expected. It confirmed my long-held suspicion that he had been lusting after me and wanting to fuck me for quite some time. I was going to give him the fuck of his life and send him to another plane of consciousness in the process. That was the plan. To gather a few more ideas for my first kill, I pulled an all-nighter at home, looking for inspiration on the darknet.

By now, the reader is likely thinking: "Stop—seek professional medical help immediately." Well, I didn't. I suspect that those dangerous fantasies—yes, feel free to call them depraved or perverse—had so thoroughly "infected" my psyche that I was no longer able to think or feel clearly and logically regarding them.

I scouted out the place where Michael lived alone—taking a day off work on short notice, reasoning that knowing the surroundings couldn't hurt. His house was situated at the very edge of a small village near Munich. Conveniently, it stood about a kilometer away from the nearest homes, right by the edge of the woods, and bordered.... ..to a small pond that was screened from the outside by the forest and accessible only directly from the terrace of his house. And a thought flashed through my mind. Many years ago, I had seen a Dutch film called *Because of the Cats*. Please don’t ask me about the plot now—the only thing I remember is a brief sequence. A group of young women (minors) lured a young man (also a minor) to a secluded beach with the promise of skinny-dipping together. Once they were all swimming naked, one of the young women fucked the young man while the other naked women swam around them. When the male victim reached orgasm, all the women held him underwater and drowned him. Now, I was going to visit Michael alone—but the idea of ​​fucking him in the water and then drowning him turned me on. So much so that—without the aid of a book or a movie, relying solely on my imagination—I brought my hand and my pussy together. It was incredible—I had never experienced an orgasm like that before. Waves of lust surged through me as if I had touched a live electrical wire. And that was the definitive moment I knew for sure: I was going to turn my fantasy into reality!

The night before my husband left on a business trip, we had the most intense, exhausting sex we’d had in months. We fucked in various positions until my husband, utterly spent, begged for mercy—he feared he might have a heart attack. And that was a risk I wasn't willing to take. Personally, I could have kept fucking all night long! After dropping my husband off at the airport the next morning, I went home and laid out the outfit I planned to wear for my visit to Michael. Black fishnet stockings, a sexy black garter belt, a—surprise, surprise—black bra (featuring cutouts for my nipples), a sheer white summer blouse that made my lingerie clearly visible underneath, and a white skirt that hinted at the lovely shape of my ass. Yes, obviously I was going without panties. For footwear, I chose a pair of black ballet flats. I usually prefer high heels, but given the setting at my victim's house, towering heels might not be the most practical choice for the situation.

I had actually intended to drown Michael, but just to be safe, I took an extremely sharp knife with a 20-centimeter blade from our kitchen and slipped it into my handbag. I had arranged for Michael to pick me up at a parking lot about two kilometers from our house so we could drive straight to his place.

And now the day had arrived when I would avenge the death of our former trainee. Michael picked me up at the agreed-upon spot in the late afternoon. As I got into his Mercedes convertible, I climbed into the passenger seat so "clumsily" that my skirt rode up, revealing my thighs and the garter straps attached to my belt. Michael gasped in arousal. Who knows what kind of reaction I would have triggered if he’d known I wasn't wearing panties under my skirt? But what he did see was enough to cause a massive bulge in his trousers. I looked on approvingly, wearing a smile that let my victim know I had acknowledged his "tribute." Apparently, though, the sight of me also robbed him of the concentration needed for driving. I couldn't help but punch him on his right upper arm—"Eyes on...". ..up front—focus on the road. Otherwise, you might as well let me out right now.”

That statement worked—even though he found it quite difficult to focus his attention on the road as required. Did I mention that Michael is—or was—25 years old? I’m 35 myself, though people always take me for younger. My husband is 41—and he’s always taken for younger, too. And my husband has the sexual stamina of a young bull; you definitely can’t tell his age by looking at him. Sometimes—jokingly, of course—I wonder if there are Duracell batteries inside his cock and balls. You might remember the commercial with the Duracell Bunny? You know the one—several stuffed bunnies drumming on their cute little drums, and one by one, the others’ drumming slows down and down until they stop moving altogether. Only the bunny with the Duracell batteries shows no signs of tiring out. That’s what my husband is like sometimes (haha). A perfect example is when I give him a blowjob. Actually, after.... ..regains his hardness—but not my husband. With the right kind of handling of his magnificent cock, he can come three times in a row before his manhood finally takes a breather. And no—my husband doesn't need Viagra!

We made it to my victim's house without incident. I did notice, however, that Michael found it incredibly hard to keep his eyes on the road instead of staring at me. He was sweating profusely. Perhaps I should have mentioned earlier that he was overweight. Not fat, exactly, but carrying a few too many kilos. And at his age—well, really, one ought to have a bit more self-control. My husband, on the other hand, had a toned, fit body. But I’m digressing. When we arrived at his house, he pulled the car straight into the carport, which was hidden from the street. No sooner had he turned off the engine than his right hand slid up my left thigh, under my skirt, and toward my pussy. You should have seen the look on his face when he realized I wasn't wearing panties and his hand moved over my hairless mound. For a brief moment, I actually feared he might have a stroke; he was breathing rapidly, and his eyes looked like they were about to pop right out of their sockets. I countered his searching hand with my own left hand, placing it on the bulge in his trousers between his thighs and applying gentle pressure to his erection. "How about we go inside first and you offer me a glass of champagne?" I purred, my voice sweet enough to melt ice.

It was obvious that Michael was intensely aroused. Not just from his facial expression and the erection visible beneath his trousers—no, he was also trembling, and it took him several tries to get the house key into the lock. If he turned out to be so horny later that he struggled to slide his cock into my pussy, I’d have to take charge of the situation. Once we’d entered his house and the front door was shut, Michael immediately grabbed my breasts from behind and kissed my neck. With my left hand—I was holding my handbag in my right—I slapped his right hand, which was resting on my right breast. "I’m thirsty—for champagne and for you, in that exact order, " I said in an icy tone. "If you can’t control yourself, go to the bathroom and relieve that pent-up load with a handjob." I felt him freeze, and his hands slid away from my breasts. I guess he wasn’t used to a woman speaking to him like that.

"Please forgive my impatience, " he stammered, his face turning deep red. I took a cloth handkerchief from my handbag and wiped the sweat from his face. Then I held the handkerchief to my nose and took a deep breath. "Strip completely naked right now—very slowly, " I purred. His face lit up, and—despite my instruction—he undressed as fast as if he were trying to set a new record. Once he was standing stark naked before me, I could see that his member was large—not as big as my husband’s when erect, but still very impressive.

"So... are you going to undress now?" he stammered, clearly aroused. "Since when do you call the shots here?" I snapped at him, and his face flushed red again. "I—and only I—decide how things go! Do you understand?" Michael nodded. I hadn’t actually planned it this way, but now I just improvised: "Pull back your foreskin—very slowly—and show me your head." As his glans was revealed, a drop of pre-cum was already visible. The thought flashed through my mind that he would probably ejaculate before we even physically united. A dog leash and collar were hanging from the coat rack in the hallway. Or so I thought—but on closer inspection, it seemed to me that the leash and collar (with inward-facing spikes) were intended for a different purpose. Did my victim perhaps have certain "inclinations"? It was certainly worth a try. "Take the leash off the coat rack and bring it here." A look of alarm crossed his face. "What are you waiting for—do you want to annoy me?" I said relatively calmly. Michael flinched, retrieved the leash and collar, and handed them to me submissively.

"See, you can do it—now get down on all fours, " I commanded. Once he was in position, I bent down, fastened the collar around his neck, and straightened up again. Standing before him, I let my skirt drop to the floor, allowing him to feast his eyes on my hairless pussy and the lingerie I was wearing. His cock twitched, showing me that he liked what he saw. "Right—now I’d finally like to drink that champagne I was promised! I am..." "...very thirsty!" When Michael tried to stand up, I gave the leash a sharp, violent tug. "Did I say anything about standing up? You stay on all fours—and hop to it, or do you want me to die of thirst?" I was slowly starting to enjoy humiliating Michael before killing him. There’s surely a technical term for these "feelings" of mine. Was I discovering the "dominatrix" within me? I don't think so. I felt my pussy getting wet, and a tingling sensation coursed through my lower belly.

Once we reached the kitchen, he looked at me inquiringly. "Get up—or am I supposed to handle everything myself?" I snapped at him. Obediently, he set to work. When the glasses of champagne were sitting on the kitchen table, I decided Michael deserved a small reward. I draped the leash over one of the kitchen chairs, unbuttoned my blouse, and let it slide to the floor. His already large eyes grew even wider; a moan of lust escaped his throat, and his cock began to bob again. His enthusiasm was understandable—after all, I looked very seductive. Did I mention that I was wearing my long black hair up in a bun today? I wanted to prevent my victim from potentially clawing at my hair. That’s also why I hadn’t worn it in a ponytail or a braid.

The champagne tasted wonderful—even though I don't usually drink alcohol. I don't take medication or drugs, either. The only high I allow myself is sex with my husband—I simply can't get enough of it. The same applies to my husband, of course, including the matter of medication and drugs. The only exception is alcohol; he occasionally enjoys an aged, expensive whisky or a glass of fine red wine. And I shouldn't leave this out—neither of us smokes. But I’m digressing now.

After Michael and I had enjoyed the champagne, I reached for the leash again. Michael started to get down on all fours. "You can walk upright on your two legs again, " I said, pulling him behind me into the living room and up to the patio door. "I want to go swimming now, " I let him know. "But you don't have a bikini or swimsuit with you, " he stammered. A short, sharp tug on the leash: "Do I look so ugly that I have to cover my body with something so trivial?" His cock certainly didn't share that opinion. "No, " Michael stammered. I attached the leash to one of the living room chairs, undid my bra clasp so it fell to the floor, bent forward to unfasten the garter clips from my fishnet stockings, slipped off my shoes, undid my garter belt, and let it slide to the floor. Then, very slowly, I peeled the fishnet stockings off my legs. This lascivious striptease of mine prompted Michael to approach me, dragging the chair—and the leash—behind him. "Stop—not another step, " I snapped at him. He froze; I moved behind him, unfastened the collar, and let it drop to the floor. Then I embraced him and pressed my body against his. "Do you like this, my horny stallion? Do you want to fuck me, your horny mare, right now?" He nodded vigorously. "Have you ever taken a woman in the water? I’ve never actually had sex in the water myself, " I lied to him. My husband and I had fucked in many places—including, for instance, the pool area of ​​the sauna complex at *Sylt Welle*. It was incredibly arousing—that thrill of constantly running the risk that someone might walk into the pool area. My victim answered no to my question. "Then this is going to be a first for both of us, " I lied again, completely unabashed.

Michael opened the patio door, took my hand, and led me across the terrace to the pond. The water was a pleasant temperature. I swam around a bit, testing where I could stand without any trouble. The junior boss—doomed to die soon—swam around me, and the lust on his face was unmistakable. *You’re about to die, you pig—but first I want to see if I get that certain thrill when you penetrate me, * ran through my mind. I beckoned him over, and he was right in front of me in an instant. My hand slid beneath the water’s surface and grasped his hard cock. He responded with a loud groan, accompanied by rapid, vigorous thrusts. And then, a loud cry of pleasure. That was exactly what I had feared. He was so aroused that just a few strokes of his member inside my hand made him cum. His face was pure lust. Mine, however, was not. "So much for our first time fucking in the water, " I blurted out, clearly frustrated, before pushing him away and swimming to the bank. So much for my original plan to drown Michael. But I still had my knife with me—and with.... ..the Leine river would have been another option.

Michael also swam to the bank. When he climbed out of the pond, there was no trace left of his earlier erection. "I’m so sorry I came so quickly—but you turned me on so much, Manuela—I just couldn't hold back, " he said, looking down. Now you know my first name, too—Manuela. Well, I’d already had sex in the water with my husband—whose first name also starts with an M, by the way. And that sex had been intoxicating. But in fairness, I had to admit to myself—the water scenario was just one possibility. I wanted to experience and feel what emotions would be stirred up inside me if I killed a man during intercourse—would they be comparable to the feelings in my fantasy where I kill a famous American actor while making love?

Back inside the house, we dried each other off. Despite my vigorous rubbing with a towel, his "little friend" wasn't ready for another attempt. As Michael dried me, his hands lingered longer than necessary on my breasts and my crotch. "Take me to your bedroom so we can make good use of the time while we wait for your cock to get hard again." Excited and eager, he walked ahead and opened the bedroom door. I walked past him, sat on the bed, and spread my legs. "Now show me if you know how to use your tongue." Excited—though still without the corresponding erection—he knelt before me, grasped my hips with both hands, and buried his face between my thighs. He had clearly used his tongue to lick a woman before. First, it slid up and down the insides of my thighs, then it glided over my hairless mound of Venus before reaching my labia. At first, she slid slowly up and down; then his mouth alternated between sucking and kissing my labia before his tongue took command again, entering me to caress my vagina. He was very gentle about it. And he had stamina. Slowly but surely, I felt a tingling sensation spreading through my intimate area. I was on the verge of an orgasm. And then, suddenly, I came—surprised by the intensity! He lifted his head and looked at me with satisfaction. Apparently, he had thoroughly enjoyed my juices. And his cock was already recovering, too—slowly hardening once more.

It was time for me to make a quick trip to the bathroom so I could bring back my handbag, along with the leash and collar, for the next act between my victim and his murderess. Michael, meanwhile, remained sitting on the bed with a goofy grin. He was looking forward to the next round—and yes, we both wanted to fuck—but our goals were diametrically opposed. He wanted to penetrate me and ejaculate inside me; I wanted to experience what it felt like to kill a man and what the sexual sensations would be like during the act. When I returned to the bedroom, Michael was lying on the bed, trying to jerk his cock hard with his right hand. I stepped up to the bed, placed my handbag beside it, and knelt down. Then I took the initiative: "Hands off your willy and into the fray"—a line that had stuck with me from the series *My Name Is Earl*—and it seemed to fit perfectly. "Scoot down to the foot of the bed until I can bury my face between your thighs." He seemed to sense what was coming next.

Once Michael was in position, I lowered my head, opened my mouth, and began licking his testicles. That wasn't something he’d expected—but he clearly enjoyed it. He let out sounds of arousal that intensified as I took first the right testicle, then the left, into my mouth, moving them back and forth from right to left and vice versa. He probably hadn't expected me to bite his balls—even if only gently. Then I took his semi-erect penis into my mouth and started giving him a blowjob. My husband used to go wild for my special treatment of his testicles and had cum more than once because of it. With Michael, I only performed this routine briefly; after the "water-fucking disaster, " the risk of him climaxing too soon seemed too high. It didn't take long for me to feel his member swelling in my mouth. I released his cock, cupped his testicles with one hand, and began stroking him with the other—fast at first, then slowing down as his member grew steadily harder and larger. When I felt his cock was fully and firmly erect, I stopped using my mouth.

"Now empty your bladder again—because the only thing that should come out after that is your cum, " I giggled. Michael stood up, smiling and sporting an erection; he walked into the bathroom, whistling as he went. I reached into my handbag, pulled out the knife, and stashed it under the pillow. A short while later, I heard the toilet flush—the pig hadn't even bothered to close the bathroom door. He returned to the bedroom beaming, though oddly enough, he closed the door behind him this time before coming over to the bed. "Lie down on the bed—and get ready for a wild ride, cowboy, " I said in a seductive voice. The idea of ​​me mounting him seemed to please him greatly; it meant he’d expend less energy while still being free to focus on other parts of my body.

As I positioned myself over him on the bed, I spread my labia and treated him to a sight he would never see again in his life. He grabbed his cock and guided it to an upright position. I sank to my knees, wrapped my hand around his shaft, and guided the pulsating length of flesh toward my opening. Then, without warning, I pulled my hand away and took his cock deep inside me. We both groaned aloud at the same moment. I began to make my hips "dance" in a circular motion—slowly at first, then faster and faster. I leaned forward, bracing myself against the headboard with both hands. My firm breasts hovered right over his face; he propped himself up on his elbows so his face could easily reach them. He took my nipples into his mouth one by one, sucking on them as if he were a baby and my breasts were his "milk containers." I admit it—his sucking made my nipples rock-hard. However, when he—accidentally or on purpose—bit down lightly on my left nipple, I couldn't help but cry out in pain. Having my nipples sucked was fine by me, but biting into my hard, sensitive nipples—an absolute no-go!

My movements grew faster and more intense—and he was clearly on the verge of the final orgasm of his lousy life. His hips jerked violently back and forth. My goal—to find out what it would be like to kill a man during sex—was rapidly drawing closer. I realized I was on the brink of climaxing. My right hand slid to the pillow and pulled out the knife. I positioned it right by his right ear. Just as my orgasm was about to hit, I drove the knife into his ear with full force, without a moment's hesitation. His eyes widened; his face contorted. His cock was still hard—and I came, I came, I came. It felt as if I were being torn apart from the inside, with rivers of lava churning through my lower belly. An indescribably hot, intense sensation! As a final parting gift, his cock and balls had shot their hot semen into my vagina. My whole body was trembling—while his lay motionless on the bed.

I could bore you now with the details of cleaning up the dead man's house—but I won't. Unless you're interested in how a housewife cleans! You aren't—I figured as much.

I left the house with his car keys—though not without first pulling on gloves and stowing my deadly knife, along with his leash and collar, in my handbag. I abandoned his car in a patch of woods not far from Munich, leaving the key in the ignition. A kilometer down the road, I caught a bus that took me almost all the way home. Three cheers for public transport.

How did I feel? Good—no guilt, no nightmares!

So—that was the beginning. In the next stories—in case you’re interested—you’ll find out how I become a contract killer.

Feel free to call me Kitty.