Detective Benson pulled over and put the car in park. He looked across the field to the circus of milling cops and crime scene techs and sighed. When he’d gotten the call, Susan from dispatch had simply said “That old tree in Jim Wellington’s field on route 8” and he could already imagine it; he’d driven that road just two days before on the way to another call. He knew what to expect, it was another murder in the case he simply referred to as The Red File. He hopped the ditch and crossed the field in long strides, joining the huddled group of cops. As expected, the victim was male. He turned away from the body and looked at the gnarled branches of the nearly dead tree. He shielded his eyes from the sun, swallowing hard as he watched a red lace negligee flutter in the breeze, hung neatly like a flag. X marked the spot. It was her calling card and she was getting bolder. First it was a stocking, then panties, and now this. Despite the clues he’d pieced together on this murderess there was so much he could not know from analyzing the aftermath of her lust. He would never know how she had hesitated, how this one had been a bit different, how somehow along the timeline from meeting to murder she had felt differently. She’d felt something.

Two days prior, a cloudless day: It had taken her very little convincing to get her new lover to put the top down and take her for a drive. He’d grinned and sped off, his hand up her thigh, pressing his fingers into the wetness between her legs, laughing and moaning as she sucked them clean, trying to focus on the road.

She had already scouted the spot. She’d chosen it for the starkness of the old black tree against the parched fields and the endless sky, the dilapidated fence that lent a poetic sense of abandonment to the scene. She felt her pulse quicken as she had him pull over, turning to look at his handsome face, her one hand resting on the knife in her purse, the other taking his chin in her hand, eyes glinting.

“You’re going to fuck me against that old tree. You’re going to put me up against it and force that thick cock up into me and make me scream with pleasure. Understand? There’s no one for miles to hear us.”

Breathless, against the tree she dropped her purse and shed her sundress to reveal the crimson lace beneath it. He clumsily crushed her to the tree trunk, fumbling with his belt, yanking his straining cock from his shorts and thrusting into her. She bit his shoulder and growled, goading him on, his hips pumping and grinding her back into the rough bark. She slid her back down the tree until she was reclining amongst the roots. He moved with her, desperate to stay inside, hungrily ripping at the bodice of her lingerie, freeing her small breasts and biting at her flushed nipples.

“Yes! Harder! Make it hurt, make me feel it. Make me … feel.”

He grunted and mumbled with pleasure and her chest tightened as he looked down into her eyes. They’d had such fun and he was so young, so sweet and his cock truly was divine but she knew what she needed. She held her breath, the sentimentality passed. She bucked and moaned, calling out in exaggerated pleasure, clutching his face to her chest, fingers curled tightly in his hair. As he began to come in her slick cunt she yanked back his head and made one fierce cut from ear to ear. He sputtered and coughed and she closed her eyes, finally climaxing in dizzying release as the blood rushed over her. Sated, she pushed his limp body off her and stood up. She looked down at him and felt a twinge of affection, her pussy still twitching at the thrill of the macabre scene. She slipped out of the bloody lingerie and hung it neatly from a low branch. She smiled to herself, put on her dress and got back to the car just in time to change into fresh clothes and wipe her face before a dark sedan crested the hill and sped past her. From behind her dark sunglasses she observed the driver, he looked like an old cop, worn down by the grit of his job. She smirked and drove off in the direction the other car had come from, quickly putting miles between them, one hand on the wheel, the other working her still-throbbing clit, the mental image of her lingerie in the tree a triumphant reminder of her sick success.

Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.