a nasteee treat for misty's readers

      well luvs, i've found a blahggg after my own dark and nasty heart. i have decided to share one of their posts with you, my honies.

     don't know much about it, but you can be sure i will find out. but for now, what i've read is sooo murderously murderous, i'm a fan. i'm sure the writer won't mind me lifting this one little  post.

     if he knows what's good for him...i suppose reston is his name. be a good boy reston, and thank misty for liking your little, naughty, stories...

     as for you all faithfully following your misty...do enjoy...

     (oh yes, reston's little website is murderella.com. yummy name res. i've made it one of my faves.)

[From court records, journalist records, published and unpublished, unreleased police records, and other published material. Names and locales have been changed per legal requirements.--Reston Cane]


The Surgeon's Daughter

Lane Dalquist was the strikingly attractive daughter of a respected Swedish surgeon and his operating room nurse wife.

The parents had met while saving lives at St. Erik's hospital in Stockholm, at times under highly stressful conditions.

Lane's tall, good looks were not attributes appreciated at university in the United States, where she pursued her medical career. A career not as a nurse, but as a surgeon.

In the U.S. of the early 1960s, the idea that women were equals in the medical field, particularly surgery, was not widely held. Especially for women, such as Lane Dalquist, who looked like Debra Kerr or Grace Kelly.

However, Dalquist had several attributes swinging the odds back in her favor. A searing intellect. And a just as searing drive to succeed, which she received from her father.
Additionally, support from her parents, who had moved to the U.S. when Lane was four, was strong.

Chicago

On a late 60s summery night in Chicago, Rod Allen was out for a drink after a long day trading. Rod was a 34-year-old financial specialist born and raised in the windy city, who worked hard trading stocks for his clients in a mid-range financial institution.

Nice looking, smart, friends and associates chided him for working too hard and playing too little. That work ethic resulted in not only his being single, but without a girlfriend and dateless since joining the firm almost a year earlier.

Rod Allen ended up in his local pub for a drink,
and to watch the Cubs lose another. Instead, he
would meet 'her'

Rod cut a nice figure as he walked into one of his regular sports bar haunts late after work that summer evening.

Smartly dressed even as his tie hung disheveled after a long day on the exchange, he took a quick look around the bar before sitting down. He chose a chair not too close, but not too far, from a good-looking blonde nursing an umbrella drink, and watching the Mets trounce the Cubs on the tv over the bar.

"A Schlitz on tap and keep the tab open Sully," the bartender later recalled Allen saying.
In between staring at the dismal game on the oversized tv, and slurps of Schlitz, Rod snuck glances at the woman down the bar. She had on attractive, if conservative, expensive clothes.

No wedding ring. And very nice legs. They were crossed, forcing the below-the-knee skirt to expose her legs up to the mid-thigh. Rod was a leg man.

The woman returned a few looks that were not unfriendly. Rod eventually made direct eye contact, and called down the bar.

"If you're collecting umbrellas, I'd be happy to get you another one of whatever you're drinking. I'm a collector myself," he joked, successfully.

He couldn't keep his eyes off her legs. They
would turn out to be deadly legs.

"Maybe I don't collect umbrellas. Maybe I collect men," she said with a dry, but beckoning edge.

Rod was bright, and liked the wit. And the edge. He didn't find too many powerful women in the corporate world who, despite their intelligence, could joke about themselves.

"A dangerous woman," he smiled. "I like it."

The woman was seated in the mid part of the bar, where the light was lower. If anything, she did not make an effort to have her face seen. One patron that night recalled, "she seemed to me to want to check others out, but didn't like the visa versa."

Apparently she wanted to be seen by Allen, and the two ended up in a dark booth together, not paying attention to the beating the Cubs were taking.

They were pegged as leaving the bar in the ninth inning. That struck the bartender as a change of pace for Allen, a semi-regular at the pub.

"The guy was such a regular Joe. Which around these parts means, die hard Cubbie. He got lucky that night, but still. I'd never seen him leave before the final nail was in his Cubs coffin," the barman recalled.

A tall, attractive, well-dressed blonde was apparently, and understandably, of more interest to Allen than a perpetually losing home team. Even one he loved.

He left with the woman, arm about her waist, walking her to her car.

Seclusion

If Rod Allen thought he won the lottery by walking a lovely, intelligent woman to her car, he was in for a bigger surprise.

"If your car is close by, why don't we find a secluded spot to enjoy the harbor. I'm a tourista. You're the hometown boy," his new friend suggested.

Rod and his new lady friend took off in his Camaro
to find a secluded spot on North Lake Shore Drive.

They walked across to Rod's '67 Camaro, and took the romantic drive of his life. Literally.

Whatever the 34-year-old, good-looking and lonely bachelor thought was a romantic secluded spot, didn't meet the criteria of his lady friend.

Rod was happy to please, and kept driving until finding what she preferred.

It was the definition of secluded. "Hope we can get her started when it's time to go. Might take a couple of days for someone to find us here," he quipped with an hint of friendly sarcasm. Rather than take offense, the remark pleased his friendly passenger. It was perfect for the tryst she had planned.

Romance

"So, I never asked what you do," Rod awkwardly small-talked as they looked out over the Chicago Harbor.

For all his handsome looks, savvy trading on the exchange, and easy rapport in social situations, he was not as confident, or at ease, regarding romance.

Allen would have no problem this evening, thought. At least not in being desired by his date.

She chose the place along the Chicago Harbor where
they would be alone. Truly, dangerously, alone.

"You don't have to make small talk," she reassured.

She moved close and took his chiseled jaw in the long, slender fingers of her hands. Her fingers were so long and beautiful Allen thought they were those of a concert pianist. Or surgeon.

Rod was soon in the heaviest make-out session in a car since high school. He wasn't complaining.

Wet kisses were accompanied by her guiding his hand between her long, well-formed thighs. Where Rod expected panties, there were none.

"Does that bother you?," she smiled warmly, as he did a double take.

"No...uh, no. I just thought tonight was going to be beers and Cubs. This is a very nice left turn."

She continued the hot kisses. He continued returning them.

And the woman didn't force his diffident hand up past her thighs, but let him proceed at his own speed. To where she wanted him to touch her.

Penetrating Experience

Allen's jacket was off. Removed by the blonde as she ravenously kissed him.

The stock trader would not need to push his conversational skills any further this evening. It was all going his way.

He had joked about her being a dangerous woman.
Rod Allen had no idea, as she kissed him, how dangerous.

A welcome break from the romantically solitary life he had been used to since his last girlfriend. Four years earlier.

This blonde, despite her passion, was something of a mystery. She wasn't from Chicago. Other than that, and that she dressed well, expensively, and was beautiful, he knew nothing about her.

Would he see her again? How far would they go tonight?

As these questions bounced around his head, Rod felt something. Some sort of sensation, below his chest.

It seemed to be inside him. Maybe not. Maybe she was just grabbing him. Giving him a massage with her long fingers. While she raped him with her mouth.

It didn't hurt. But it was some sort of undefined sensation. He opened his eyes from the kissing, and saw her staring into them. Her own eyes seemed to dance. To be looking into his soul.

She pulled back, millimeters from his mouth. And breathed in his breath. Looked deep, searchingly into his eyes.

His own eyes questioned what he was feeling. There was no real pain. But, nevertheless. It was curious.

"Relax. Everything's going to be okay. I'll take care of you," she said calmly.

Sex for her involved more than just physical intimacy.

Strange. She was reassuring him. How did she know he needed reassurance? What was happening?

Or, what was she doing?

Rod was about to ask what she meant by, 'relax'. But then, all of a sudden, he felt very relaxed.

Even faint.

He tried to look down, but she caught his mouth in hers with a wet kiss, and stopped him.

When she was done with that, she held his jaw with her left hand. Her right was somewhere else. She still prevented him from looking down.

"It's okay. I'm here with you," she cooed.

The woman could see he was weakened. Under her control. Completely now.

She removed her hand from his jaw, and he immediately looked down.

Rod Allen was incredulous. Shocked at what he saw.

He saw red. And lots of it.

Literally. Red. Below his sternum. Somewhere down there. He didn't know, or see exactly where.

Blood had been let loose as if a dam were opened.

The entire front section of his shirt below the chest, his expensive white Arrow shirt, now looked like half an American flag that had been badly printed. Red and white.

Out of the mess he could see her beautiful hand holding something. Her long fingers wrapped around something black. A handle of some sort?

Allen soon found out.

Quickly, and expertly, she pulled whatever it was out, and then smoothly, and with specificity, put it back into him.

He was woozy. But he could make it out.

It was a knife.

He had a knife in him. And Allen had just seen her pull it out, and place it back into his body.

Oddly, he had felt next to nothing. Was it an illusion? Had she dropped acid into his drink at the bar? How could she have just stabbed him twice, and he barely felt it?

No pain. Only a mild sensation. And now he felt like he was fainting.

He was fainting.

The Evening Ends

Rod understood now. Not fully. Not why.

But, he understood that she actually had stabbed him. He was sure he was now dying.

After it was over, she walked away from the Camaro,
into the night. Found a hotel, where she called for a cab,
and got a ride back to her car. She would never see Rod Allen again.

He didn't have time to even ask her what was going on.

Why she did it.

He was now so faint from the loss of blood, he could only look into her beautiful eyes. They were wild. Manic.

Allen hadn't realized it, but the sensation, of the stabbing, had occurred just as his hand had gone into her.

Between her legs. Into her wetness. Her sexual organs.

His mind, his life, was going. But he realized she stuck her knife into him, at the moment he was, with her encouragement, putting his fingers into her.

As their eyes looked deep into each other, he saw her begin to shudder. He hadn't hurt her. He hadn't raped her. Done anything against her will. Why was she...

Then he knew.

She was having a climax. An orgasm.

His fingers still in her. He, too weak to remove them.

She was climaxing as she was killing him. Indeed, it appeared she was climaxing as a result of killing him.

As this all patched together in his mind, Rod saw her fully realizing her orgasm.

In an abrupt motion, and as she pulled her knife from him, which would accelerate the inner bleeding ending Rod's life, she covered his open mouth with hers.

Thrust her tongue deep. Their tongues wrestled.

Rod yielded, for lack of energy, to her powerful, hungry motions. She sucked his tongue into her mouth. As if it were a penis she wanted deep in her.

Now he could feel himself dying. Painlessly. Losing consciousness.

Whatever she had done, she had done it well. Expertly. As well as a surgeon might have.

Finally, he felt the end. Her mouth pressed deep, wet against his own. His fingers in her. Feeling her lovely wetness.

Then, for him, blackness. Nothing.

She had killed him. It had been a murder.

And, an act of sex. Even love. Perhaps.