Kitty – The Dancer (Part 2)

(The Blackmailer)

I am glad you decided to read this story as well. I hope you enjoy it—though I should warn you right away: this story will be more brutal and bloody. But at least you will find out why the title is "Kitty – The Dancer."

As you already learned in the first story, I harbor dark fantasies—very dark fantasies—about being a female hitman. And about how those fantasies turned into reality. Well—the term "hitman" isn't quite accurate for the first story. After all, I hadn't received a contract (except from myself) to murder my employer's junior boss. And hand on heart—I wanted to find out for myself whether my very dark fantasies about murdering a man during sexual intercourse could actually be put into practice, and what the sexual consequences would be for me.

Let the record show: killing my first victim—Michael—was a first for me. Things didn't go exactly as I had "planned, " but I was more than satisfied with the result. I enjoyed dominating my victim, and the act of seduction followed by the killing aroused me intensely. And the orgasm I experienced while killing him was unique; I had never experienced anything of that intensity before. Did I feel any guilt after that first killing? No—my conscience didn't trouble me in that regard! Did I sleep poorly? Did I wake up from nightmares during the night? No—I slept better than I had in a long time while my husband was away. Had my daily life changed? Not really—except that I now immersed myself more frequently in the realm of my dark fantasies. And those fantasies were becoming extremely intense at times. Not always—but increasingly often. And the question arises for me: was the sexual experience during Michael’s murder a one-off emotional whirlwind, or would the same parameters come into play during another killing? Questions upon questions—ones that could likely only be answered in reality by actually murdering a second man during sexual intercourse!

Do you think I’m a psychopath now? I’m a "virgin" when it comes to this subject. Perhaps a reader could help me out with a rough "assessment"? But please, don't suggest I see a specialist right away. I’m aware of doctor-patient confidentiality regarding third parties, of course—but I don’t want to rely on it. Or should I go straight to the police? No, I couldn't do that to my husband. Who would give me so many wonderful orgasms if I were sitting in prison? Does that sound selfish to you? If so—well, that’s something I can live with; something I *have* to live with.

When my husband returned from his business trip, he asked me, "So, my darling, did anything happen while I was away?" I denied it without batting an eye. Things got pretty heated in our bedroom for most of the night. We were both "starved" for it and gave free rein to our desire. Our bodies were drenched in sweat when we finally pulled apart—and I felt a cramp coming on in my right calf. But my darling massaged my calf so tenderly and skillfully that the cramp never actually set in. In return, he got a blowjob that shot a full load of his semen right down my throat. Delicious!

Now, onto the subject of "dancing." I’d say I have a good sense of rhythm. Even as a child, I loved moving to the beat of the music. Family and acquaintances alike said I had "rhythm in my blood" and would surely pursue a career involving music someday. When I was 13, I absolutely loved ballet—and I was lucky enough to take lessons for two years. Family and acquaintances all said I had "rhythm in my blood" and would surely pursue a career related to ballet later on. At 16, I started getting interested in boys. My family and acquaintances thought that I would surely... well, actually, they didn't think that at all (haha).

A year and a half ago, our church congregation hosted a festival attended by, among others, a Thai delegation from an orphanage and kindergarten that our congregation supported. It was a wonderful event featuring many lovely performances by various groups and clubs. I was particularly captivated by the performance of three Thai women who presented a type of temple dance. Those movements—harmonious, radiating peace, and conveying a palpable sense of inner calm—delighted everyone present. I must have been swaying along without even realizing it—because when I thanked the three ladies for their performance, the oldest woman said, in a deep Bavarian dialect, "I must have...". ..rhythm in my blood. I must have had a pretty silly look on my face, because all three women started laughing. It turned out to be a mother and her two daughters. In her youth, the mother had fallen for a dashing Bavarian man and moved to our beautiful state with her husband. Her two daughters were born here and had grown into lovely young women! And now things got really interesting—the family lived less than 25 kilometers away. It was a very pleasant conversation that ended with the mother-daughter trio inviting me to visit their home.

That visit led to them giving me "private lessons" in various dance styles and movement techniques. Their unanimous opinion was that I had rhythm in my blood and quite a bit of talent! Kanya—that was the mother's name—was a truly special person. She worked as a masseuse just for the fun of it; she didn't actually need the money. In her younger years, she had trained in specialized massage techniques in Thailand. It was fascinating to learn that there were specific massage techniques used by so-called temple dancers to relax both body and soul. Sound interesting? It certainly did to me—and since there seemed to be a special connection between Kanya and myself, I accepted her offer of a massage. If you’re thinking of the kind of erotic massage many men fantasize about, I have to disappoint you! Although... I did find her massage very arousing. To ensure I wouldn't feel any embarrassment about being naked, Kanya also went without any clothing. Despite being 53, she had the body of a young woman and radiated an erotic allure that I found breathtaking. Her hands glided gently over my body like the breath of a warm summer breeze, and I felt a sense of peace, relaxation, and happiness. I felt like I was floating on a cloud. After my back had been massaged, it was time for my front. I admit—feeling her hands on my breasts and intimate areas felt like an electric current flowing through my body. I must have instinctively arched my pelvis toward Kanya, for her hands slid down to my labia and began to caress them. The orgasm was indescribable! I wept with happiness; Kanya took my hands in hers and kissed away my tears. "You’re glowing and look content. I hope you didn't mind that I surprised you like that." I shook my head and kissed her on the lips. "Thank you for being so sensitive." Over the next few weeks, Kanya taught me various massage techniques and showed me special methods capable of heightening a woman's pleasure to extraordinary levels.

Having developed a taste for dance—and inspired by a report on the TV channel BR3 about a group of women in the Munich area who practiced belly dancing as a hobby—I sought to get in touch with them. A short time later, I found myself part of the group, ready to be initiated into the fine art of belly dancing. Before long, the women who were already experienced in belly dancing—you can probably guess what’s coming—told me I had "rhythm in my blood" and "considerable talent." It seems I am truly gifted in this regard.

It is a fact—at least to me—that both the Thai dance style and belly dancing contain many erotic elements. I created my own dance style by combining various elements from these dances into my own sequence of movements. Once I felt confident enough to show off my "dance moves, " I decided to treat my husband to a private performance first. Although I didn't have the right "accessories" to wear, that turned out not to be a problem; I danced for him wearing nothing but a thong. For the music, I had the three Thai women load several tracks onto a Bluetooth speaker.

Would it surprise you to learn that my private show was a huge hit with the audience? The audience—consisting solely of my husband—applauded wildly, blew me kisses, jumped up and tried to get into the rhythm (albeit rather stiffly in the hips), tore off his clothes, and took me right there on the improvised dance floor. Wow—I really hadn't expected such an intense reaction from my husband. I knew the dance moves were erotic—after all, I felt it too—but my husband was so aroused that he didn't bother taking off my thong; instead, he thrust his erection straight into my pussy. Rapid, hard thrusts made my body tremble. It felt as though my husband believed the world was going to end within the next 10 minutes. ..cease to exist—that was the pace he set. My husband has uncanny self-control regarding the timing of his orgasm—I climaxed twice in very quick succession. When my third orgasm was imminent, he saw it in my face, and we both reached our peak at the same moment, screaming loudly. I’d say, "Mission accomplished." To wrap this part up, I’ll just mention in passing that, after our fucking session, I spoiled my husband with a massage—which he absolutely loved!

So—enough about "dancing" for the moment. Let’s refocus on the topic of "my dark sexual desires and experiences surrounding the killing of a stranger." To ensure that the sexual feelings I experienced while killing Michael weren't just a fluke, a second man would have to die at my hands! I almost forgot to mention the funeral of our junior boss. Some of the staff from the EDEKA market were present when Michael was laid to rest. Our senior boss was a broken man, though he found support in his older son and his daughter. His wife had passed away six years earlier, so she was spared witnessing Michael’s development and his death at my hands. Shock and sorrow were visible on my colleagues' faces. Whether these were genuine emotions or merely a show of propriety for the sake of his family, I can't say for sure. Michael was a real pig, and deep down—especially among the women—more than a few were surely glad he was no longer among the living. I can certainly confirm that for myself! I’m not ashamed to admit that I got wet as the coffin was lowered into the grave. For a brief—a very brief—moment, the image flashed through my mind of standing over the open grave and urinating on the coffin. I suppose my blood sugar must have been low! When I got home from the funeral—my husband was away on a two-day business trip—the phone rang. "I saw you with Michael last Saturday, " a male voice said on the line, "and then Michael turns up dead. Doesn't that strike you as odd?" I flinched, but my voice remained perfectly calm. "And what are you trying to tell me?" "I suspect you killed Michael. Lured him into a sex trap and then killed him—isn't that right, Melanie?" How did the unknown caller know my first name? "You ought to get your mental state checked—I’m going to file a police report against an unknown person!" "Think very carefully about that—where do you think I know about you from? Michael bragged to me that he was going to fuck you over the weekend. He even pointed you out to me at Edeka and said he’d wanted to nail you for ages. And how do you suppose I knew he was taking you to his house? Did he come too fast in the pond? You looked dissatisfied when you climbed out of the pond. Sort of disappointed—couldn't he give it to you properly?" How the hell did the caller know about that? Had he been lying in the woods, watching us through binoculars? "I’m hanging up now—I’m not listening to this nonsense anymore, " I said, my voice trembling slightly. "Oh no, you won't, you slut, " the caller hissed. "I’ve put together a document with the relevant details—something the police would surely be very interested in!"

Damn—my plan to murder Michael had taken an unpleasant turn for me because of his bragging to the caller. "Okay, what do you want from me?" I asked, my voice clearly trembling. "What do you think? First off, I want to give you a good, hard fucking; the rest will sort itself out, " panted the caller, who sounded quite aroused. No matter how things played out, it was clear to me that I would have to murder this man. At least it saved me from having to look for a second victim to validate my sexual fantasies. Damn—damn—damn; this wasn't how I’d pictured it at all. Should I have done anything differently? I don't think so!

"Take the S2 line to Holzkirchen station; I’ll be waiting for you there from 6:00 p.m. Don’t be late—if you don’t show up by 7:00 p.m., my notes go to the police the next day. See you later, my dear. And don’t worry—I’ll recognize you when you get here." With those words, he hung up. I glanced at the clock—just before 4:00 p.m.! No time to make any "preparations." I think that was his intention, too. I grabbed my handbag, threw in a few condoms, and headed to the nearest bus stop to catch a ride to the closest S-Bahn station. I was heading to the meeting without any kind of plan. I was, so to speak, in "Blindflug“. ..would have to improvise—and gather information.

Shortly after 6:00 p.m., I got off at the Holzkirchen terminus and left the station. The weather was good. Outside the station, a medium-sized man rose from a bench, walked toward me, and said, "It’s great you made it on time, Melanie—we’re sure to have a lot of fun." As he stood before me, I recognized the man who had often chatted with Michael at the Edeka market and had been present at the funeral that morning. "What should I call you?" I asked, summoning as much self-control as I could. "Just call me the God of Love—or Jens, " he replied with a smirk. "God of Love? You’ll have to prove that, " I retorted with a smile. "I’ll prove it to you amply—eventually, you’ll be begging me for a break so you can catch your breath, " he said, gesturing toward a vehicle (a BMW convertible) parked nearby. Unlike my ride with Michael, I hadn't "dolled myself up" but had dressed quite simply. Yet, I could tell from the way Jens looked at me that he liked what he saw.

After a drive of just under twenty minutes, we stopped in front of a house. There wasn't another house in sight for miles. The house stood set back from the road. I could check the first item off my list with satisfaction: if there were any screaming inside the house, there was no immediate risk of it being heard. I knew I had to appear "willing" and avoid angering him—no matter what happened. I resolved to accept everything, memorize every detail, and—at a future meeting, which was bound to happen—take action fully prepared. "You have a beautiful house here, " I remarked as we entered—and that was no exaggeration. He closed the front door behind him and gave my backside a smack. "Just wait until you see the bedroom. Unfortunately, I can't offer you a pond or a swimming pool—but there are plenty of ways to have some serious fun right here in the house." That "fun" would clearly involve only him.

Jens started undressing right there in the hallway and pointed to a door. "We should start with a shower together." It was obvious he was aroused when his briefs dropped and his cock stood at attention. It was no match for my husband’s or Michael’s—but it was acceptable. I remarked approvingly, "I seem to turn you on—thanks for the compliment, " and began to strip as well. Once I was completely naked, I grabbed his erection and pulled him toward the bathroom. His cock seemed to like that a lot, as it began to throb in my hand. The bathroom was large—and lavishly appointed. The shower stall was tiled with countless tiny tiles, three side jets were aimed inward, and the showerhead was at least two or three times the usual size. Jens flipped one of the three light switches, bathing the shower stall in red light. Being the gentleman he was—though "blackmailer" would have been a more fitting term—he opened the shower door and gallantly let me go first. Once he was inside the stall too, he closed the door, set the temperature to 25 degrees, and turned on the water. And then—unexpectedly—he shoved me against the wall. I managed to brace myself against the wall with both hands just as I felt his penis between my buttocks. The next thing I felt—painfully—was him thrusting his cock into my anus with full force and without warning. A cry of pain escaped my throat. I’m not exactly a fan of getting fucked in the ass anyway—but if it’s going to happen, there should be lube, and the process ought to be slow and tender. That wasn't the case with Jens; he rammed his rod inside me fast and hard. He either completely misinterpreted my pained gasps (thinking they were moans of pleasure?) or they actually turned him on even more. His own breathing grew increasingly frantic, signaling that he was about to cum. With a loud shout of pleasure, he ejaculated inside my anus. "Whoa, your ass is so wonderfully tight—my cock really filled you up, " he boasted. His cock was many things, but it didn't compare to my husband’s member or that of the late Michael. With those two, the pain would likely have been far worse. Jens’s cock had caused me pain, too, but given its size, it had been more bearable. His hands slid up from my hips to my breasts and began kneading them. Did he really think a woman enjoyed having her breasts kneaded like bread dough?

I reached for a bottle of shower gel, turned toward him, and started soaping him up—from head to toe, front and back. His moans and facial expression suggested he enjoyed my touch—though his shrunken penis couldn't yet weigh in on the verdict. I handed him the bottle of shower gel, and his hands slid over my body to spread it. I pulled myself together to hide my disgust and revulsion. I found it particularly revolting when his soapy hand worked over my labia for a long time. Did he expect me to have an orgasm from that? Eventually, Jens gave up his efforts; we dried each other off and left the bathroom for the bedroom. While I—being a tidy person—picked up the clothes I’d scattered in the hallway and took them into the bedroom, my "god of love" simply left his things lying where he’d dropped them on the floor.

"Sit on the bed and spread your legs—now I’ll show you why I’m nicknamed 'Quick Tongue, '" he boasted. "Quick Tongue"—had he given himself that name? Whatever; if it meant avoiding him thrusting his member inside me again, so be it. Jens knelt between my thighs, held onto my hips, and began the journey of his tongue toward my labia. He actually seemed to possess profound knowledge when it came to oral sex. His tongue slid over my labia; then his mouth kissed and sucked on those already highly sensitive lips before his tongue went back to work. It penetrated my vagina, darting back and forth. I hate to admit it, but I felt desire. He was really good at going down on me. To turn him on, I moaned loudly, "Yes, yes, yes—faster, faster." It seemed to be working—his efforts quickened, and I ramped up my own pleasure in sync with his movements. And then—without further warning—waves of pleasure washed over me. Not a mind-blowing orgasm, but decent enough. I grabbed his hair and pulled his head up so he could look at my face—which I’d ​​artfully contorted to look like I was overcome with lust. Men are so easily fooled.

As he stood up, his cock began to go hard again. To speed things along, I grabbed his dick and started jerking him off. His "little buddy"—as it had been until then—found my handiwork so arousing that it swelled to full size quite quickly and began to pulse in my hand. A mental image flashed before me: I was castrating Jens with quick slices of a knife. The "vision" startled me. I’m not really a violent person, and I abhor the idea of ​​emasculation—whether the person is alive or dead! But the image vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. What would happen next? I found out right away. Jens walked over to a dresser, opened a drawer, and took out a pair of padded handcuffs—each with a ring attached—along with two leather leashes, each with a ring at the end. Now I started to feel a bit scared. "Don't panic, my horny little mare. I’m going to attach the leashes to the headboard and connect their rings to the ones on the handcuffs. After all, I don't want you scratching up my back while I fuck the brains out of you!" *You should be more worried that I might strangle you while we're fucking, * I thought to myself. "Would you at least use a condom?" I asked him. "I have some in my purse." After tying me up, he went to my handbag, took out one of the condoms, and put the rubber on. The look of lust on his face was repulsive, and I feared he would be just as brutal as he had been in the shower.

Unfortunately, Jens didn’t disappoint—after rubbing his cock up and down against my labia a few times, he thrust quickly and very hard into my vagina without warning. I couldn't suppress a scream of pain. He drove his member all the way into my pleasure cave and set a furious pace right from the start. Likely to get an extra kick out of it, he also started to strangle me. Panic set in, and my body began to twitch. His face was contorted, but he loosened his grip just enough for me to catch my breath. Unfortunately, the intensity and hardness of his thrusts didn't change. His breathing grew faster, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Then he exploded and came inside the condom. He seemed so exhausted from the act of "lovemaking" that he collapsed onto my body. "How was it for you?" he asked after several minutes of heavy breathing. "I came twice—you didn't exaggerate. You fuck better than my husband, that limp-dick, " I lied brazenly to his face. In reality. ..Jens didn’t even come close to my "orgasm master."

Once he’d recovered, I couldn't help but ask, "Can you show me your notes on the alleged murder of Michael that I supposedly committed?" Jens gave a mocking laugh and pulled out his phone. He unlocked the screen and opened a folder. Several of the images showed handwritten pages that, unfortunately, gave a very detailed account of the day at Michael’s place. "Don't worry—those are just photos of my notes; the originals are somewhere else." What a surprise for me! My tormentor and blackmailer put his phone away and freed me from my restraints. Then he slipped off the condom, tied a knot in it, and handed it to me: "Here, a little souvenir of this fantastic fuck." I would have loved nothing more than to shove that semen-filled condom down his throat and hope he choked on it. Oh well—that wasn't going to happen today. To replenish the fluids we’d lost over the last few hours, we both drank some champagne Jens fetched from the kitchen. We had just one glass each, then I lay back down on the bed—he poured the rest over my torso and my mound, and licked it off me! He seemed to find the whole thing incredibly erotic; I felt like throwing up, but I put on a brave face and praised his licking technique (which was a lie, of course).

If I had hoped the ordeal was over for the day, Jens disappointed me once again. "Lick my balls now—and when my cock is hard again, you’re going to give me a nice blowjob. That’ll be the cherry on top of the cake." After that remark, I certainly wouldn't be eating cake anytime soon. I slid between his thighs and took his right testicle into my mouth. My tongue glided over his ball; I sucked on it and gave it a very gentle nip. I repeated the same routine with his left testicle. And then his right one again. We went through this a few times until his cock was hard again—hard enough for me to give him a blowjob. "Could you clean your penis with a washcloth before I put it in my mouth?" I asked him. Surprised by my request, he nodded, went into the bathroom, and cleaned his erect penis. When he returned, he stood tall in front of me: "No rubber—I want you to swallow my load." Now it was my turn to nod; I didn't exactly like the idea, but it seemed necessary to wrap up the day.

I licked his cock and kissed his testicles first, before taking his aroused member into my mouth—licking, sucking, and giving it a gentle nip. His moans signaled his approval. Because he had already ejaculated earlier, it took nearly thirty minutes before he shot his semen down my throat with a cry of pleasure. "Yum, your cum tastes really great"—another lie meant to boost his ego. "Could you drive me back to the Holzkirchen S-Bahn station now so I can get home before midnight?" Jens nodded, and we both got dressed. "When can I come back?" I asked on the way to his car. "If you want, you're welcome to come back tomorrow, " he said. "I can't, unfortunately—my husband is coming back from a business trip tomorrow. Maybe next Saturday?" Excited and aroused, my next victim agreed—men are so driven by their cocks!

On the S-Bahn ride home, I began to hatch a plan for how Jens would die at my hands next week.