laaah...deee...dahhh, dahlings.

naked with mai taiz under le chapeau, luvs

     well my sweeets, even God rested on the seventh day.

     and if you are ever looking down the barrel of my smith & wesson six-shot (whence noise is no problemo), or into the noise suppressor on my cute glock (when we don't wish to wake the neighbors), then i will be your god at that very delicious momento.

     and so, as such, i rested today in my south of the boulevard hillside pool with my gal palz, doing all sorts of nasteee things gal palz do when they have too much booz and raging hormones in them.

     but i'm working on a few things. mostly stuff which i can nevah evah tell you all about.

     howevah, don't cry a river. i'll get back to the tale of harry...and all that went into that yummy adventure.

     thrillz and killz, dahlings. till i write again...xoxoxo

killing harry...part quatros

[continued from...before]

i was a chic chick, and when i killed i wanted to be stylin'!

but this time style was not an option...grrrrr!

   so here i was hunting harry, in the midst of little town america. style was the first thing to go...boohoo!
    i had to tone it down for smallsville.
    manolo blahniks would have blown the sockets of where i had ventured to hunt harry. even nine west would have turned a few heads. sadly, i went for the sears, montgomery wards 'style'...if that's a word that can be used with such vile crap.
    how'd i bring myself to downscale so drastically? you forget, my luvs...i'm a professional.
    plus, i just pretend it's halloweeeeen. booo!
   

i had to be, like, straight out of the sears catalog! 

    tho i was in boondox usa, harry was the big fish in the small pond. more like the whale who had hidden himself.
    casa harry was on the outskirts of town. harry was a friggin' land magnate. acres and acres of rambling earth that would have been undistinguishable from wild countryside except for the necessary 'private property' postings, required by law to keep squatters out. oooh. squating...so de classe!
    harry's kingdom included a simply dahling old house that l.l. bean himself might have lived in.
    as for the earthy earth, a river runs through it says it all.
    several rivers and a few lakes. all which must have been oh so trouty, judging by the collection of poles and reels hanging from harry's spacious redwood entrada to his main house.
    of course i was trespassing. i figured mr. harry was spotting me from some hidden property cameras, leading to harry central, where surveillance team harry was monitoring my every move.
    yes. harry was important potatoes judging by this layout. it wasn't my job, or my place, to figure out why or who wanted harry to go bye bye. judging by this layout, sir harry was a big enough fish it could have been sooo many people.

harry's place was, jeeesh, the size of montana.

lotsa land...lotsa places to bury things...hint, hint

    i take every job as serious as a good orgasm. but the more i saw, the more i wanted to impress whoever wanted harry's number punched. whoever he/she was, they had to be an 'a' list player cause everything about harry was looking big league. those types always have someone they need knocked off, so it was just good business to do a better than great job on mister harold.
    i felt like judy garland at carnegie hall. i could feel eyeballs on me. but as always, i'd dressed for success.
    i was draped in a duckflap hat, plaid and flannel this and that, including undies. hiking boots klunky and no nonsense enough they were actually trendy. wayfarer ray bans sooo fifteeeeez i coulda pulled them offa jack kerouac's face myself. if i'd been born yet.
    i was sure i'd be greeted any second by security team harry. or 'h' himself.
    i totally had developed a crush on the man. he was larger than life for me. it would have been heaven to see him striding out with a pained expression like cary grant seeing audrey hepburn. underneath that frown, he'd love me. and i him...every moment up until i put that .38 in the back of his skull. mmmmmmmmmmmmm...

harry was a rugged guy, and deserved a macho rugged death...

like a hot dahl with hot red nails blowin' a big red hole in his head. mmmm...

    fantaseeez aside, it was not to be. not at that momento...
    no harry. no security team. nothing.
    he couldn't truly be so...so...down to earth, as to have no security team.
    could he?

    there's just so long one can walk around as if she had escaped the cover of field and ditch magazine. i decided to split.
    i toodled back to my non-descript rental car, whose license plates i had removed prior to entering harry's north forty.
    safely in my driver's seat i cocked the rear view mirror to see what i looked like after tramping in the forest for an hour.
    it was elmer fudd staring back.
    i ripped off the duckflap hat. harry had better be the best kill ever...i was going sooo out of the way for him!
    that's when i heard the voice.
   
    it came from the back seat.
    i straightened out the mirror, and saw him.
    a huge, dark shadow of a man with skin like a leather strap barbers use to sharpen straight razors on. do they use those anymore? whatevahhh...

some fuck was in the back seat of my cute rental, sounding

way too much like the jerk who narrates those

NFL flix on tv that guys like sooo much

    the guy in my seat back had a voice like the gasbag who narrates those football films on tv. sheeesh! you'd have to be bored to the point of suicide, or be a dude, to watch that dross.
    couldn't follow what mr. voice in the back of my auto rental said, sounded like something about the green bay packers.
    'huh?' i squinted into the mirror. "i don't think green bay's got a chance this season, bucko."
    "they got a better chance than you do, darlin'" he drooled in a phony texas accent guys put on when buying car tires and talking sports.
    "i'm not tryin' to take the eastern division, darlin'!" i shot back, and cranked around to see who this fuck was.
    my superbly manicured hand was already on my protection piece, a handsome auto .44. i use it mostly to scare vics into doing what i wish without going bang bang. if i shoot, it's gonna  blow a basketball size hole in whatevah's on the other side of that barrel.
    haven't had to fire it yet. but NFL voice couldn't see it since it was on my side of the faux leather bucket seats.

i had a nice hidden piece trained on mister NFL,

in case he wanted to do a blitz from the line

    i'd hate to fuck up the nice mauve and Easter blue checker pattern on the driver seat by blasting my cannon through it. not to mention how NFL boy's guts would clash with the alternating color scheme on the rear seats. red-brown guts and mauve...just not compatible.

    "i know you," i said, looking at his rough, nasty mug. it wasn't harry.
    "i bet you do, darlin'. i bet you do."

[to be deliciously continued...]

coool it ! or...i'll have to discipline you!

don't make me discipline you, little dahlings! 

     i just received a communicado from one of you, which delites me, but also makes me wish to scold you!
     it went something to the effect that this person was waiting for my next chapter on killing my darling harry, as well as other interesting stuff a nasty bytche such as i has to say.

     well buckos, and my dahlings...i love the interest. but with all due respect, sit on it!
     if you haven't noticed by the very essence of this whole blahhhg, i am a working girl. this blahhhging is for me to vent, to enjoy myself, and to let a few of you into my very stylish and elite world. if you're nice.
     pestering me is not being nice. i have people to kill. clothes to buy. shoes to try on. rodeo drive and manhattan avenue to dally forth upon. chix to lick and fuck. and...somewhere down the scale...a blahhhg to write.
     you can be sure you're not going to get this stuff anywhere else. i'm not a professional writer spitting this crap out. i'm a very nasty girl, who let's you in on what secrets i can, because it's so much fun to do. and because i know you are just twisted enough to enjoy it.
     so, let's stop being a nuisance. enjoy what tidbits i give you. they are good. and have some patience.
     and just be gosh darn thankful one of your ex girlfriends or whatevah didn't hire my sweeet ass to kill your ass. or you'd be gone.
     baby, gone.

getting closer to...killing harry

    harry was, to be quite tender about the whole thing, the daddy i never had.   
    purrrhaps that was why my little psychopathik heart beat simply with delite upon the thought of him being my very, very own!
    you all know by now, that anyone who is mine, is mine to kill.
    i've had some feedback on sharing my open little heart, and how iccchy pooo i am to utter my longing to terminate guys.

harry looked like that sweet old timey small town entrepreneur.

i sooo longed for the moment i would take his life...

    As if i were a giddeee high school girl flushy flushed with a crushy crush.  
    look dahlings, for meee, to kill is to love. and, (cliche alert!)...to love is to kill.
    and, so, my sweeets, to kill harry would be a yummy yum yum act of tender love for your auteur and snuff girl here.
    as for harry...i liked him sooo much more than the typical gentlemen i get to do.
    so i decided to make this sooo intimate. what does intimacy mean for the baddd girl misty?
    read on, my luvs, and ye shall see...

i'd killed marks by drugging them in a bar, taking

them outside for a makeout session, and then

tossing them to the ground and putting them to

sleep forever, hand over their nose and mouth...

    not to give anything away...hate doing that.
    intimacy to me means a bit more than the typical 9mm in the sweet spot at the base of the skull. that's all fun and nice, sugah and spice. but i wanted to actually touch harry as i took him across that great divide.
    i'd killed marks by drugging them in a bar, taking them outside for a makeout session, and then tossing them to the ground and putting them to sleep forever, hand over their nose and mouth. but i wanted something more tender for harry...
     and...i wanted to actually meet this sweet pops, straight out of a jimmy stewart flicker. meet him before he would be mine for that final momento. maybe run into him at the market. flirt a bit...before the ultimate flirt.

i flopped down on the bed, thought about killing harry,

and began to touch myself...

  
    so, i arrive in my nondescripto auto rental, pulling into town late one night. checking into one of those motels that, in the morning, offer coffee and glazed donuts with a sugar shellac harder than my estee lauder 'dark of midnite' nail polish.
    i'd be lyin' if i didn't admit, the first thing i did after check-in, and flopping down deliciously nude on my motel box spring, was to practice my onanistic arts.
    for those of you who didn't ace your verbal PSATs, onanism for a chic is sticking her long, sexy fingers up her cunt and bringing herself to a hottt orgasm while thinking about something sexeee. like killing some sweet old man who is cute enough to be her dad.
    yes. i am sooo fucked uppppppp. and lovinggg it my honies!
    as the countrywestern lyrix whined on the room's one channel radio, i bit my pillow as not to wake up the car parts salesman in the next room.
    whilst i swoooned, i imagined harry's last few seconds prior to being no more. his sweet ole life in my baaad girl hands.
    would there be a rope around his handsome old neck? or a pillow over his face? i hadn't decided...i just knewww...that i was...about...to...tooo.......oh...oh......ooooohhh...

    i came!...thinking about nixing harry. and i promptly fell asleep.
    it was a good sleep.
    i'd awaken the next day. and...
    and decide where and when to introduce myself.
    to.....harrrrrry.

all niter...i was baaad girl !

 

the way we were...guys strangling dolls

thanks to hitch, from dial 'm'

     good morning my loves.

     it's been a long sleepless night for me. but rather than go to sleep, i'm all worked up and have to chat a bit.
worked myself into a frenzeee. just a little job. but sometimes the little ones can surprise you. and be sooo much fun.
     so tonite's little gig ended up with my dahling subject truly breathless.....ahhhhhhhhhhhh
     know the song? i didn't ask if he did. but now it's too late.

     i really shouldn't go into specifix of how i wrapped my ligaturo around the honey's neck. He looked so surprised when i kept tightening...and just wouldn't stop. and he thought we were going into that cheeesy motel for a little kinky sex. instead it was a kinky hit. like they all are.
     but it had me thnking. and, you all know by now, how much i love...to think.
     hence my blahggg here where i can share all my delightful ideas.
     now, my luveee from tonight will nevah, evah, evah, be found. so i might be telling you about him somtime soon. no clues to tie me. but then there's harry.
     can't let harry go. his demise will lovingly be retold here in 'part trois'...or is that part tres? i'm sooo multilingual!

 

role reversal...the asian killer girl flix

oh so have it right...here a doll dispatches

a deserving vic by asphyxiating him between her legz

      back to my thoughts after dispatching, then dispersing, my sweet vic this eve...er, morning.
     it struck me how times have changed.
     i recall when that famously famous misogynist, hitch, did one of his many flix where women are so badly badly treated.
     dial 'm' for murder.
     however, i did so like where, in that one, the damsel turns tables on her would be killboy.
     my complaint is that rather than sticking him with a scissors...sooo inelegant! i would have liked to see her peel that garotte off her neck, kick him in the lower regions, and reverse gender roles.
     strrrangle him. niccce and slowww.
     as i did luveee tonight. uh...this morning.    : )
     i must point out that, despite being an assassinette...oh my, the very name of my blahggg...i speak quite objectively. i believe outlooks are changing. women are so empowered these days.
     no. i'm not talking that helen redddy stuff. don't want to hear a chic roar. it would be like wearing mervyn's pumps. horribly inappropriate for anything but taking out the trash.
     no, i'm speaking of a little gathering i went to not too long back. can you believe it, the thing was this murder mystery night, all for the ladies.
 

this murder mystery was all for learning how to strangle your man!...i said, 'i've gotta see this, dahlink!'

     no, this was not one of my gal pal things. these were what you might call, normal ladies. husbands. humdrum 9to5 jobs. boyfriends who liked watching golf all weekend.
     so this murder mystery was all for learning how to strangle your man! when i came upon that in the alternative weekly i was perusing, i said, 'i've gotta see this, dahlink!'
     it was total kix. this had nothing to do with lethal techniques training. nor, believe it or don't, was it for the kinky crowd. that david carradine stuff...gag...cough...gasp. literally.
     the deliteful gathering  was for normal ladies who wanted to do a bit of agatha christie play. funny how i'm considered such an outlaw, and agatha christie (one of my faves) is revered...and she may be twisted several  screw turns more than moi!

 

nothing like a little strangulaton for your guy...

and physiologically, guys get turned on by a good hang

     anywho...this little murder mystery nite was a cathartic bit of theatre where the dolls were taught rope trix...like how to commit a dial m murder, without being stabbed in the back before you can do whatchya gotta.
     the dolls, not all cute...some in their sixteeez, practiced on each other with tittles and laughter, drinking their mimosas!
     all good clean fun. and i'm sure these honies were all going back to their humdrum hubbies and cretinous twits of boyfriends after getting a little role play out of their systems

 

a pic from the murder mystery

'learn how to strangle' nite...two of the dolls

warming up to some knot play

      it's nice to see a reversal of fortunes working itself into the culture. sooo differential to those boring fifteeez. a time i gratefully had several decades distance from before being born!
     and, when born, in the first few years of life, i jumped straight to the role reversal. strangling and attacking litto boys in the neighborhood. i was so the terror.
     who knew someday i'd be doing it for real?
     i knew. wink wink.
     ok, time for sleepies. nite nite.

la chateau marmont...2 die for

 

    i do like to wax nostalgique.
    funny thing for a woman barely into her thirties. uh...or something thereabouts...
    must be i'm an old soul.

    whatevah.
    my recollections of killing harry (don't mean to give it away, but yes, harry died) have got me thinking. i do so love to think.

    i savored harry. his slow, delicious death. which i'll pick up, but not right now.
    it had me thoughtful about the lady who taught me how to savor 'le kill'.
    okay, i just throw phoney french phrases around to be fun. i know it makes me sound like the ultimo valgirl. but hey, underneath the garottes, the glocks, the yum yum of murderrr...i am just your shopaholique valgal. tres declasse.
    back to the point dahlings.

 madlena explained to me how she devoured, and savored, her kills as they slowly asphyxiated in front of her

      i enjoyed snuffing harry so much, because of madlena (ok, not her real name, but totally the flavor of it). a hot older bulgarian woman (and i do mean woman) who over our week together (yeah yeah, we were...luvahhhz) schooled me in fully enjoying the work we are so privileged to do!

    what 'madlena' taught me was how to relax. kind of a zen and the art of...you know...archery. or whatever. except with moi, there's a man instead of a target at the arrival point of my arrow.
    arrows. .22s. garottes. pillows on a tied up dude's frightened face. the arrow is metaphorical. who uses an arrow anymore? well, there's...oh, that's for perhaps another time...
    anywhat...madlena explained to me how she devoured, and savored, her kills as they slowly asphyxiated in front of her. she used a frightening but delish schooling technique to teach moi. i am totally and foreverrr in debt to this luvalicious lady.
    she was a teacher extraordinaire.

    this mistress of 'the kill' had a tasteee sense of the nasty. she had no qualms about taking down a female mark, unlike me. even children were fair game.
    at first i hated her for such brazen amorality. then she seduced me, and i couldn't care less if she was the devil herself. i loved her. i fucked her. i craved her.
     i licked the sweat from the beautiful high arched soles of her perfect feet. and the cum from her wet inner flesh. ooooh...!



    compose yourself misty! ok. composed.

    oddly enough i'd met this bulgarian 50something beauty in lalaland. lost angeles. a city so surreal and inane, one has to love it.
    especially if you're a sick chick like meee.
  
    it was a three-month break between very well paying jobs. and i just wanted so to live recklessly. girls just want to have fun, wasn't it once said?
    so, holed up in the chateau marmont (i'm the queen of taste, remember?), i spent my first week in vapidity. hiking up to the hollywood sign. strolling around freaksville sunset blvd. drinking dry dry mahhh-tinis at night on the marmont patio. eyeing the starlets. deciding who'd be my first fuck in L.A.

madlena, a bulgarian hitwoman who bound me,

and pleasured herself as i strangled

    turned out, while i was hunting pussy, i was being hunted.
    after two nights of eyeing bimbettes, i felt a pair of eyes on me. normally i sniff it out right away, which should have been a clue that whoevah was scouting me...was good.
    i pretended not to notice, and made my way to the little girls' room, planning to strike a glance at the eyes in the shadows on my way back. not to be.

    my cunt immediately went wet, my body limp. i'm one of those chix who can fall in love with a woman for her feet. and i was in love.
    "kill me. just kiss me before you do," i uttered. completely meaning it.

    while visiting the facilities i entered a stall to make room for more mahtinis. without pulling it shut, the door closed and i felt strong, womanly arms clamping my own limbs to my sides.
    i could have fought, but as i looked down i saw the most stylish pair of prada 60s black perforated leather stilettos, pointeee tips, strappy straps around strong gawgeous ankles, and high, strong, heavenly arches exposed in the midsection of the pradas.
    my cunt immediately went wet, my body limp. i'm one of those chix who can fall in love with a woman for her feet. and i was in love.
    "kill me. just kiss me before you do," i uttered. completely meaning it.
    "kill you dahling! i'm going to fuck you. and fuck you. and fuck you..." she said in a deep voice that had been tempered on a lifetime of 'queen zara premium' bulgarian cigarettes and cognac.
    she spun me around and without even looking at her, my open mouth clamped onto hers like a lampray eel's. tongues entwined. our salivahhh mingled.
my cunt exploded without being touched.
    when she pulled away i saw the darkest, sultriest, meanest, Godliest, most hellish face i'd ever seen.
    i was in love.

the chateau marmont bed where 

madlena did...many...many...things to me

    somehow we made it from the bathroom to madlena's second story suite. accomodations are the fifties timewarp at la marmont. sooo l.a.
    she threw me down on the bed, pulled her skirt off, walked into the bathroom, spread her longgg legs over the open toilet and pissed like a man. she had been wearing no undies.
    when she came back into the room, her cunt was still moist with piss. wearing her prada pumps, a clingy top, and nothing else but a sick nasty smile, she climbed on the bed and sat down on my face. she told me to "lick my pussy clean".
    i did.
    i won't go into what else happened, or i'll never finish. and i've got files to go over...if you get my drift.

    cut to the chase, it rained for the next week. those unremitting rains. where hillsides burned away in the late summer fires a week before now washed away, stripped of vegetation.
    in the 70 degree downpours. city streets turned into aqueducts. volvos and corvettes, and everything in between, washed away. madlena and i snuggled, ate, drank, fucked, sucked, watched trash tv, and talked, for days on end. was it day? was it night? who cared.
  

 completely in her charge, i meekly sat folded on my knees as she used one of her seamed stockings to knot around my neck, then down to my ankles, so i strained to sit at an angle far back enough so i wouldn't strangle to death.

    of course, she turned out to be a hitter. like me.
    she'd spotted me the moment i'd shown up at the marmont. and decided she'd have me. sexually, not as a kill.
    unlike me at the time, she was sophisticated. several or more masters degrees. 13th century theology of birdgod religions. art history of matriarchical societies of medieval europe. 20th century paganism on the major continents.
    and of course her unofficial masters in killing. assassination. sweet murder for hire. she would be my professor.
  
    when we had intimized so much our bodies could have been one, she proposed we go further.
    "Now, for the deepest intimacy of all. i shall kill you," she said in her deep, tobacco and cognac soaked bulgarian rumble.
    my eyes jolted like in an ungrounded socket. weak in the knees, wet between my legs at the thought of it, i responded.
    "oh...kay."
    she laughed heartily. "you vould, vouldn't you." i nodded yesmam.
    "little fool. i don't mean for actual. but you be my kill. i show you how i would do you. but of course, you will live. this is not a how to kill. but a how to enjoy a kill."

    when you are ready, they say, the teacher will appear.
    they were right.
  
    i was already naked. so was she.
    madlena first secured my wrists, then my ankles, together with beautifully crafted italian leather straps she pulled from nowhere, it seemed. then she folded me down like an accordian, on my knees, to the floor in front of the bed. not unlike i had done times before to my own kills. but she did it with so much more...panache.
    after that, nothing she did was as i had ever done. i was in class.
    completely in her charge, i meekly sat folded on my knees as she used one of her seamed stockings to knot around my neck, then down to my ankles, so i strained to sit at an angle far back enough so i wouldn't strangle to death.

 

an idea what i looked like 

as madlena prepared to watch me die

    eventually i had to give up and flopped over on my side, much as a caught fish asphyxiating once landed and splopped onto a boat deck.
    she had expertly done the stocking knot so i wasn't so much strangling for air, but rather for blood.
    the large arteries in my neck were pressed by the silk of her legwear. my asphyxia was virtually painless...the lack of oxygen to the brain summoning me to a dreeemy sleep.
    less painless, but mucho moro deadly than an air passage strangle. so easy to drowse your way to death. the lack of arterial blood cuts oxygen to the brain. verrry peaceful. like going to sleep.
    it also brings a sexual ecstasy. asphyxia triggering an autonomic response in the body. equal opportunity...for either a male or female.
    the popularity of public hangings in the 19th century, i've read, having in part to do with seeing the victim's stiffie upon death...so wonderfully nasteee we humans are!
  
    as for the lovely madlena...she was enjoying my sweet suffering. stroking, fingering, herself with each writhe and succulent twist of my bound body.
    i trusted she hadn't intended to snuff me. but i didn't trust she could stop enjoying the show in time to rescue me. she seemed too intent on pleasuring herself as i slowly...died.

  

    'i had so much to live for.

    so many chanel blouses to buy. manolo calfskin pumps to purchase.

    so many men to kill.'

    her long, well shaped legs spread. she sat on the bed, feeling herself.
    i felt love. the love caviar feels on a cracker as it's going down the throat of a hungry rich bitch with an arrogant smile on her face.
    i didn't want to die.
    i had so much to live for.
    so many chanel blouses to buy. manolo calfskin pumps to purchase.
    so many men to kill.
    'don't kill me, madlena,' i thought, as the life so sweetly drained from me.
    feeling the sugar between my legs...the orgasm coming...the eternal sleep building...swarming me like a beckoning, murderous, tsunami, that i ached to yield to.
      and yet, struggled futilely to escape from...

 

madlena stroked herself as i 

asphyxiated to 'death' in front of her

    as madlena became a blur...her spred long legs the gates of Heaven...her cunt the tunnel towards the light...i faded...swoooned...
    died...
    it all went milky black...a warm sexual release filled and washed over every cell, every molecule, every atom, electron, proton, neutron, in my dead body...
    and then black...became light.

    i was staring up at her. she was undoing her stocking. the fine italian leather straps (had prada made them?). maybe i was in Heaven.
    no. i was alive. she had let me nearly die. then pulled me back. pulled my head back to release the blood in my arteries. she, indeed, was an expert. a mistress of the kill.
  
    we didn't speak again that night. i laid like a daughter in her arms. pliant. incestuously. the daughter. with mommy.
    the beautiful eastern european mommy who had shown me how to kill.
    how to love.
    how to live.
    and how i want to die...someday...

news from wimbledon: maria is out ! wahhhhh !

the deeelish maria sharapova, out at the 'W', but very very 'in' wearing offwhite undies to polka dotz!

     sorry maria, i'm guessing you don't appreciate female admirers singing your praises publicly, but i'll keep it clean.
     you are hottttttttttt, and haute! i love you my dahlinggg!
     you may be out at the big 'W' for now, but you'll be back.

--the best wishes, misty

view to a kill, part deux...

    the taste of gretchen, helga or whatever her name was,  was still in my mouth when i got into manhattan to pick up
the file on my hit.
    70 park ave was a delish hotel to hang my glock while hitting coffeee bars, barney's, bergdorf's and the like. my mind was on the job, so lezzie pussyhunting was not on the scheds. but, if things ran true, i'd find some hot cunt to stick my tongue in before renting a car and driving out to do my job in a week or so.
    my own pussy ran hot and wet at a little cafe on fifth avenue. i was finally digging into the file on the lucky fellow who'd be snuffed by the best doll in the biz. me.  
    i sipped a double espresso with a hint of mint as my hungry eyes scanned the foto of his face for the first time.
    love at first site.

grandad harry with the happy crinkled eyes, in my perfect world, would spend his final moments hogtied naked before me

    his eyes were warm, with sunshine crinkles off the corners. his mouth, that nice midwestern half-smile with a sharp sense of irony. the kinda guy who'd chuckle seeing his murderess checking his file.
    yes, i was in love. i always am.
    but this sweetie was like 'pops'. something out of norman rockwell, whose americanna i do so enjoy. you think hitwomen only like edvard munch, egon schiele and the blau reiters?
    get real!
  
    established then, i was gushy over my mark. which, of course, makes me the killah i am.
    i'm not some hate filled dyke who kills to make up for a bad time at prep school. or tough time growing up in 'da ghetto'. or a sickie psycho strangling puppies as an eight year old!
    i'm a hunter. the old Native american thing. respect what you take. honor what you kill.

    i can't say what this dahling did to bring about my employment. they don't give me too much on that.
    he either cheated on wifey, knew where the toxic waste was buried by xyz corp, under a shopping center somewhere, was worth more in insurance $$$ dead than alive...shall i go on?
    back to the fun.
    after looking at, let's call him harry, i was surer than sure this had to be intimate.
    one never knows how it really will turn out. like hitting neiman marcus on labor day. you know how you'd like it. but until you're in the trenches, you don't know shit.
     'shit'. that's a technical term, sweeties.

  
      so, grandad harry with the happy crinkled eyes, in my perfect world, would spend his final moments hogtied naked before me.
    i'd run my long red-nailed fingers through his bushy full head of salt and pepper hair. his friendly eyes would look oh so frightened. but not just frightened. harry was a man's man. he'd be looking at me. wanting me.
    harry would be too virile, even at 60 something. no viagra needed to give harry a stiffie. his organ would want me.
    he would look up at me, i'd be naked w/ nothing but stiletto boots and Gucci black leather cashmere-cuff gloves. $375 retail...$300 on bluefly!
      and harry would be harder than he'd been in 25 years...

    i'd finished my espresso, had to make book before barney's closed. on sale, a simply delish ungaro skirt i could not live without!

(i was) hot thinking about his hard white, 60 year old cock, sticking out like a mast, as i tenderly place my cord around his neck

    so i closed the file on harry, for now. but in slightly over a week, his file would be closed permanently.
    i took one more thought of harry. hot thinkinggg about his hard white, 60 year old cock, sticking out like a mast, as i tenderly place my cord around his neck.
    sidle around behind him.
    pull him close to my naked, naked body. ooooooooh...
    tighten my garotte.
    he begins to sweat. bodies are flush, he smells my estrogen. the smell of my cunt as it heats. sticking, as we both perspire. my hard clit stiff as his weenie, rubbing against his strong back.

  
    delerious, lost in lust for the kill. still, somehow, i made it up madison ave, homing in on my ungaro like a cruise missile, while lost in a fog thinking of killing harry...
    i entered barney's 32 minutes before closing. just enough minutes. there'd be time enuff to think about killing harry later.
    right now ungaro was on my mind. after all. i had to be well-dressed.
    i owed it to harry.

(to be continued....love misty)

poetry by 'misty'

he's in my site
what sheer delight


he squirms and writhes, complete with tears
the moment to come, i'll love for years


on his knees, an older gent
no wife or family, for me he's meant


take him gently into that good night
his manhood hard,  he's in my site


.38 cocked, naked on his knees
begging for life, through the window a breeze


i smile my love to another sweet victim
his tears fall, courage not in him


as i prefer, i like them crying
touches my heart, crying and dying


a shot in the forehead, clean and neat
back his naked body goes, i pressed delete



quivering with the thrill, over him i stood

eyes froze open, dead cock hard as wood

bye sweet dear, you made my night
i love you so, i took your life.

une jeune fille en france...

     a little break, kill afficianadoz and fanz.
     some delitefully nostalgic pix came my way, that i just had to share.
     don't like to get tooo specifica about my personal history, but i spent some of my formative years in europe. i am sooo continental, hahaha!
     grew up on french/italian/german vogue. if you were wondering where my style comes from. that which isn't intrinsic dahlings.
     even then i was the twisted little girl who liked to tear down and oil military grade automatic weaponary, tie up g.i. joe dolls in sailor knots before strangling them with armature wire, and other fun stuff.
     les fotos here, whilst not me (i was much more the long legged teen than this, nevertheless, cutie) brought me back to a summer in normandie. even then i was a nascent lezzie...ooozing fantasies about the franciase jeune filles i'd see about the small towns and countryside. homemade dildoes joined my military weapons tear down manuals, and decapitated g.i. joe dolls, as young, sexually awakening playtime materiel.
     imagine my sheeer delite as a burgeoning hot, sexually misunderstood pube teen coming upon the remains of some of the world war deux gun emplacements along the french coast!
     sooo many young coming-of-age girls take to horseback riding as their surrogatia for the male of the species. a big steeeeming animal you can control, between your booted legs...longgg rides where your riding pants become oh so moist in the most embarrassing place!

after riding large caliber nazi artillery as a superheated randy pubescent honey, could i ever consider a male's dinky piece of flesh?

     i had a few summers like that. but coming (pun) across the gun emplacements on the normandy coast was much more instructive for my future sensualite than riding a gelding.
     was this the reason i came to associate the grandest sexual thrill with killing the phallic member of the human species? ohhh, there are so many reasons that happened, i can't go into it all here. but i'm sure large caliber german armour played a delicious part.
     i'd often wait until sunset, when it would be deserted. i could then do as the lovely sweetie here...undress, and climb aboard a real weapon. is it any wonder i prefer women? after riding large caliber nazi artillery as a superheated randy pubescent honey, could i ever consider a male's dinky piece of flesh?
     the few men i ever tried did equal the big guns of the third reich in one way. emotionally they were as cold as the german steel. and just as rusted.
     getting off target (gun pun).
     i've things to do. including finish my little hit recollection for you. but do enjoy these pix, which so fondly took me back to my sweet tender youth.

view to a kill, part uno...

a tall german stewardess caught my eye

     well luvs, it's that time. you knew it would come.
     it's time to take you on a hit.
     to those of you who find a luscious tale of actual murder to be distasteful, the disney channel has a nice blog you might wish to try.
     now...if we're ready...

     it was late summer early in the second millenium annos domini (sucha smartipants i am!) when a work offer came via cabana boy, along with a wet martini i'd ordered, in the south of france.
     "what's this hon? i ordered a mahhh-tini."
     "eet is from za desk madame. spezial deliveree."
     "ok doll. arrivederci."
     "uh...zis is france madame"
     i gave him a five and told him not to push his luck.

the only thing i love more than a naked hogtied man on the ground in front of me...would be a hot wet cunt in my mouth

     the envelope, and it's contents, were an offer of work back in the states. there were requirements for any job i would accept. and they had been met.
     he had to be male and over seventeen.
     he was and he was.
     my vacation had droned on into three weex of water skiing, tennis, women and alcohol. and the occasional galoise. i could go on for another couple, but a kill sounded...so...perfect.
     a day and a half later i was back on air france headed to the states.
     planetime was spent sleeping, drinking, flirting with the non-male flight attendants, and fantasizing about
my first job in three months. i sooo hoped it would be an intimate kill.

 

i had my nite with the german stewardess

     the only thing i love more than a naked hogtied man on the ground in front of me,  garotte around his gasping neck, would be a hot wet cunt in my mouth.
     spezifikally, the blonde one belonging to the tall german stewardess who'd returned my nasty suggestive glances since we'd got out over the atlantic.
     once back in ny, i had two things i needed.
     a nite with her. and faxed info on my 'man'....

(to be continued...love misty)

ilsa liked to kill...

     i love sharing new finds. i am sooo enjoying this blahhhg-ing

     a little nostalgia dahlings. i came across a picture on the net that took me back fiver years to my days in europa, and a lovely compatriot of the trade. the pic, above, isn't her, of course. she'd have killed any photog that dared snap her. but the doll in the shot is so so very very the spitting image of my lovely friend!
     only thing was, ilsa (of course not her name my honies) had only one weapon. that was her body. she worked out to look good. but also to kill.
 

my hand would reach under the table and feel the meat of her inner thigh, as she relived the last 18 hours... how she'd squeezed her mark's thorax ... until sweeet asphyxia enveloped him

     she had the proverbial 'killah body'! literally, as they say. i've storeeez to tell, and will, but the doll in this pic reminded me of having a few brews with ilsa after a job she'd done.
     my hand would reach under the table and feel the meat of her inner thigh, as she relived the last 18 hours, and how she'd squeezed her mark's thorax, with the very thighs i was stroking, after securing his arms to his sides with his own pants belt...squeeezing until the motion of his ribcage stopped...along with his breath...letting him dingledangle in that perilous state until sweeet asphyxia enveloped him, and completed the hit for her.
     in the fotographia above i can almost see her, moaning with delite moments after finishing him...body still warm on the bed, as she swooons...
     i love finding pix like this, bringing back such yummy memoreeez.

     oh, don't fret. in my spare moments i've started one of my little reminiscences for you. a lovely kill a few years back.
     coming, so to speak, sooon dahlings!

ultra vixens ! bye Russ!

 

my heroes! the Ultra Vixens

     i have no excuse for being five years after the fact, but i truly hadn't known the mahvellous russ meyers had gone over the other side in 2004.
     suppose i was too busy sending people there myself. oh well, russ would forgive me...i know!
     after all, the genre he pioneered, les ultra femme fatales, or better known as the Ultra Vixens (seen above) was his personal 60s neo noir vision brought to life.
     those rare flowers of us who bring his vision to reality, grew up on his world of Killer Girls, and aspired to so be. some of us (need i raise my hand) succeeded.
     here's to you russ...i'm sure i would have grown up as baddd without you...so society can't blame you.
     you just made it so much more fun!

 

russ, we'll miss you

a galoise...perfect end to a perfect kill, dahlings

     sucha long day. prep prep prep!
     but it will all be worthwhile.
     meanwhilst, simply had to share some scrumptious photos i've found from a shooter (not the same definition of the word that applies to me, my lovelies) i found doing that stumbleupon thing. delightful things to be discovered.
      the delumptious dahlings (might even be the same chic) in these picts are taking a smoke break. i so do love inhaling a deep lungful of dangerous tobaccoooooooh after i've done something nawty nawty, like fucking. or offing some male of the species. but like so many things yummy (murder, heroin, tanqueray), moderation is essential.

     whatever these cuties just did, they are reeelaxing with a galoise, perhaps.
     rough, but so chic in that raw way i love so much.
     i'm sure the dolls here are sweet and dear, and probably put spiders outdoors rather than squash them with their ferragamo stilettos. however, the photos so remind me of myself after a job well done, i had to steal them and post them here. sooo very me after a good kill! a niccce slowww strangle, where i looked into my mark's begging eyeballs, knowing this moment would be ours forever.
     and then, tightening my gucci leather garotte (gucci purses are sooo de classe...perfect for pulling apart and making deadly devices from...don't you think?)...i hear my darling squeek his last breath...watch his cock straighten up like the mast of the sloop john b (sorry brian)...and snuff the life out of the sugar plum.
     ooooooooooh, i feel like lighting up right now after sharing that little moment with you all.
     hope you don't mind me sharing. and if you do, i'd warn you to stop reading this blahhhg as pretty soon i'm going to take you on a ride you won't find at seven flags. dahlings.