

Heather lay erotically next to Harry, her hand softly caressing the smooth but stubbly inside of his armpit. Harry let out a moan of enjoyment and began to stroke heather's soft lips with his right thumb and forefinger, the feeling of her on his fingertips reminding him of of the pig's tail he kept preserved in alcohol in his closet. Heather sighed dramatically and started to say something, but Harry took the chance to slide his fingers into her mouth and began fingering her teeth. Perfectly smooth and bleached, Harry shuddered with sensual pleasure at the soft sliding his fingers made in her mouth and the sweetly warm feeling of her body fluids. Heather slowly reached an arm across Harry's bare stomach until she reached the zipper on his jeans, moaning with enjoyment as Harry explored her mouth. She started fumbling with Harry's zipper, and he used the momentary distraction this caused to force the rest of his hand into her mouth. Heather stifled a gasp, her sharp inward breath thwarted by the newfound obstruction. She started to panic, her eyes widening and grip on Harry's zipper loosening. She let out small choking sounds. She thought it was unbelievably sexy when Harry swooned with pleasure and shivered ecstatically. Adrenalin coursed through his veins and he felt dominant, powerful. Harry knew he needed to assert full control and thrust his fingers down Heather's throat. She sputtered and gagged, spit dribbling down her chin and cheeks, unable to breath. She wallowed in her pain. The feeling was orgasmic. Harry pushed his fingers into the walls of her trachea and they burst through, rupturing tendons and arteries. Fresh blood spilled from her open neck and onto her chest and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Harry could see his fingers, red and wet, protruding from the holes in her neck. He tugged upward hard, the spinal chord offering some resistance. Harry pulled harder, skin and veins ripping under his fingers. With a loud crack, the vertebrae in her neck finally gave and harry's hand jerked backwards. He gazed upon his trophy. Beautiful, he thought to himself. It had a strange sort of weight and off center balance to it. He went to his bedside desk and put it down, then rummaged through the drawer. Not finding what he was looking for, he shut it. Beneath it lay a cinderblock, which he hefted onto his chest with both hands. In one swing, he brought it down on the severed head with a sickening crunch.