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Amy

Part III

by Egbert Wikitiki

October 2010

I pulled into the parking lot at Lake Spanaway, unaware of having left my apartment or the route I had taken to get there.  After choosing a parking space near the bait and tackle shop, I killed the engine and sat there in silence for a while, scratching my head and lost in my thoughts, wondering if Amy would be exactly as she had been in my dream and how it was that I had driven half a dozen miles with absolutely no memory of having done so. 

I had conflicting thoughts about how to approach my upcoming encounter with the girl.  Though my dreams had never been even remotely prophetic before, a part of me still feared that Amy would turn out to be the girl from my nightmare; if this turned out to be true, I planned to hightail it out of there in a hurry, just to be on the safe side.

It seemed far more likely that Amy would be the lonely, somewhat pathetic girl I had predicted earlier.  If that proved to be the case, two courses of action occurred to me: one resulted in hot, steamy sex—provided she was at all attractive—and the other concluded in the same manner as the first scenario, with me hauling ass out of there.

Because of the current threat presented by what the press had dubbed the Oak Valley Slasher, not a single other vehicle or person shared the parking lot with my pickup.  Only a fool or someone desperate for sex would venture into such a dark and secluded area after dark.  As both of those descriptions applied to me, I hardly gave the Slasher a passing thought as I awaited my encounter.

I might have far scarier things to fear, after all.

Besides, so far, the Slasher had only attacked eye-catching young women, and I hardly qualified as such.  My only thoughts regarding the maniac focused on how he worked so hard at reducing the number of attractive women in an area that could not afford such a decline.

Still, I supposed that the lunatic had done me a favor, in a manner of speaking.  Before he had gone into business, the lake had drawn a considerable crowd most nights, mostly teens intent on making out fervently before the police could come by to chase them all away. 

Now the place appeared utterly deserted.

This appealed to me, as I suspected that Amy and I might be making a considerable amount of noise before long.

I leaned back in the seat and something hard pressed against my back, along my belt-line.  Then I remembered strapping on my Buck Knife before leaving my apartment.  I didn’t usually carry the knife—wearing Buck Knives seemed to be a fashion statement in the Puget Sound area, and I resist all trends—but had thought it a good night to exercise caution while dressing for my date.

If this indeed was the Amy of my dreams, I wanted to be prepared.  I would escape if I could, but I wouldn’t hesitate to defend myself if the need arose.

Cool, damp air wafted through the cab of my truck.  A faint mist hung over the lake, partially obscuring the far side so that the lights near the dock and bait shop did not fully reveal the boat ramp or the trees ringing the tarn, making ghostly visages of them.

I climbed down from my pickup truck and sauntered down to the dock, listening to the sounds of the night as I walked.  No wind harried the leaves on the trees and bushes around me, but the wail of a siren racing down Old Military Road shattered the calm.  I shook a Marlboro out of its pack and lit up, drawing in a deep breath of the stale night air as well as a couple hundred carcinogens.  What the hell: who wants to live forever?

Stopping just shy of the dock, I gazed out across the water and enjoyed the solitude.  Normally, one must drive far to find actual isolation, even in Washington State.  Yet, other than the distant sounds of traffic and the fading wail of the siren, I appeared to be completely alone.

I hoped this condition would not last; I still hoped to share the company of at least one person that night.

To my left, footsteps echoed across the parking lot, rebounding off the bait shop.

After grinding the butt of the Marlboro under my heel, I turned in that direction and saw the vague image of someone approaching.  Knowing that it had to be Amy, I wondered how she had arrived.  I hadn’t heard any cars in the area other than the ambulance racing down Old Military, nor had I seen the headlights of any vehicles pulling into the parking lot. 

Maybe she lived within walking distance.  Sure, that made sense.  After all, she had hinted that she lived near Lake Spanaway… hadn’t she?

The only detail I could discern from her distant figure was a body worthy of closer inspection.

At least she wasn’t fat.

But as she drew nearer and the lights partially encircling this side of the lake revealed her more clearly, it became evident that this Amy in no way resembled the girl of whom I had dreamt.

Thank God.

Considerably shorter than my phantom Amy, this girl stood no more than five feet and a couple inches tall, giving her a level view of my solar plexus.  Not an auburn delight, this girl had raven black hair, glossy and full of body.  Though I could not yet see her eyes clearly, I felt reasonably certain that they were not green.  To further confound matters, she wasn’t naked, as in the dream.  This Amy wore jeans and a tee shirt.  And, although certainly attractive, this woman was not the sex goddess of whom I had dreamt.  In addition, she couldn’t have been a teenager: the streaks of gray in her coal-colored hair and the crows-feet beside her eyes betrayed an age more advanced than mine, though not by too much. 

I nearly sighed with relief. 

I had been loathing the notion of fleeing a young girl, though that is exactly what I would have done had she turned out to be the Amy of my dreams.  Also, her willingness to meet with a perfect stranger in such a remote locale suggested that she fit the “loose-woman” profile for which I had been hoping. 

Though sexual satisfaction appeared to lay in my immediate future, I remained leery.  Confined to my neck and scalp now, the tingling sensation that had overwhelmed me earlier in the day had not left me.  It seemed a gentle warning of imminent danger, though my senses—and my gonads—begged to differ.

This may not have been the Amy of my nightmare, but she was still Amy.

When she stopped about five paces before me, her tension was plainly evident.  She looked as rigid as a bronze statue with the exception of her dark eyes, which darted in every direction except toward me, as if she expected that I had brought a group of observers—or fellow participants—along with me.

With all the whackos, weirdoes and maniacs in the world, who could blame her for being apprehensive?  I certainly couldn’t.

Once assured that I had come alone, her eyes finally found mine, and immediately I felt pulled toward those shadowy eyes, felt a deep craving, a yearning, a gnawing hunger…

She may not have been a teen sex goddess, but her beauty was undeniable, making me wonder how she could possibly become desperate enough to meet with a stranger that had gotten her number off a bathroom stall.  A woman of this caliber should have no trouble finding dates.

More caution bells sounded in my head, but I tried to ignore them.  After all, she was here, I was here, and we both had needs, desires….

Where was the harm in mutually satisfying those desires?

This is Amy; she may not be the Amy you expected, but this is Amy.

Partially to confirm that nagging, annoying voice, I asked, “Amy?”

Nodding, she said, “Bill?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d really come, considering….”

She smiled coyly and said, “Considering how you got my number?  I admit it’s odd, even dangerous, but I’ve done plenty of odd and dangerous things in my life.”

I did not doubt it.  Now that I had a good look at her—and heard her speak—she gave the impression of one who had spent many hours on the back of a Harley Davidson.

“Well, I won’t give you anything to be afraid of.”

She looked somewhat disappointed.  “Not the wild type?”

Her coy smile infected me and rose on my lips as well.  “Maybe in some regards.”

 “Well…?” she said invitingly.  “Where do you want to go?” 

She no longer appeared the least bit shy.  She batted her eyes at me and parted her mouth slightly. 

She nearly oozed sex appeal. 

My apprehension suddenly blossomed in proportion to the hardness of my cock.

Though she looked nothing like the girl-monster of my nightmare, I suddenly felt a creeping certainty that she shared more similarities with my dream Amy than not.  I successfully suppressed a shudder that raced through me and tried to hide my angst.  Reason and Intuition took turns parrying and thrusting as they fenced over the right to control my actions while the Libido officiated. 

Run! said my instinct. 

Don’t be an idiot! my mind hollered.

And, Nail the slut! urged my gonads. 

I had to keep reminding myself that this was no dream.  Amy may have become a monster in my nightmare, but that was the stuff of nocturnal fantasies and had nothing whatsoever to do with reality.  Monsters don’t exist, not really.  Besides, this woman wanted me!  I wasn’t about to say no to a good time just because of a silly dream.

In the end, Rationality teamed up with my Libido and together skewered Intuition right in the gullet.  My lingering fear did not leave me completely, but I managed to push it down so that I could no longer hear its little mousy voice clearly.

She stepped closer—so close that her nicely rounded breasts pressed against my belly. 

I liked the feel of those tits pushing against me. 

“It’s up to you,” she prompted, batting her eyes alluringly once again.

The angst generated by thoughts of my nightmare surfaced again.  Suddenly, I knew on some deep level that the game I played was a dangerous one, yet I felt compelled to play along, to see where it led, to entice the real Amy out of this shell.

In my dream I had been helpless.  That term had never applied to me in the real world, and I did not believe that would change anytime soon. 

No longer fearful but instead curious, even eager to try to open up this girl, reveal her dark, buried secrets, a sense of determination settled over me.  I would discover what lay beneath the façade of this seemingly lovely shell of a woman, or I would prove myself wrong, in which case I could still have a good time.

Perhaps, a very good time.

My smile grew.  I believed this to be nothing more than a game.  It may have been Amy’s game, but I was happy to play along.  So I said, “Let’s go up there,” and nodded toward the restrooms. 

I’m not sure why I suggested the facilities.  Perhaps it was an unconscious test to see if the dream Amy lurked beneath the pretense of this woman.  Or maybe I had suggested the bathroom because it was the only available shelter.  The increasingly chilly, damp night would lose much of its appeal if we had to strip down to our skivvies outside, and the cab of my pickup was… inconvenient.  Oh, it’s a better place for sex than, say, a Honda Civic—but the steering wheel always finds its way—with painful force—against my head or hip every time I’ve made with a girl in the truck. 

Of course, I could have taken her home, or suggested we head over to her place.  But where’s the fun in that?

She looked a little disappointed by my suggestion, but didn’t complain.  She shrugged and said, “I guess it beats a muddy field… barely.”

So I led her up to the door of the men’s room and opened it for her. 

“You want to do it in there?” she asked with obvious distaste.  Apparently, she had thought I intended our coupling to take place in the alcove entrance to either the men’s room or the women’s facilities.

I nodded.  “Don’t you?”

She thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged.  “What the hell,” she said with a laugh.  “It’ll be one for the books.” 

So in we went.

As soon as the door swung shut behind us, she dropped her air of shyness and started undressing.  I stood there watching, enjoying the show but a bit disconcerted by her aplomb.

“Aren’t you going to undress?” she asked as she unfastened her bra, letting her breasts flop out unceremoniously.  She had nice tits: small and round, perfectly formed.

Very much like those of my dream Amy, I noted, trying not to let the realization affect my erection.

I took my shirt off and unzipped my pants, but left them on.  Fortunately, a guy can get away with that.

She pulled off her pants and panties, and I saw another difference between this and my dream-Amy: This woman’s skin was milky white—what many would describe as alabaster, but I’d just call it pale—as opposed to the coffee-and-cream complexion of my fantasy girl.

This detail forced me once again to reconsider my swelling certainty that the woman before me was not what she appeared.  Maybe she was just a horny lady nearing middle age with few opportunities to satisfy her carnal desires after all.

Intuition and Rationality clashed swords again and I did my best to ignore both.

Amy came to me and ran her hands over my chest, around my flanks, down to my hips…  I stopped her short of pulling off my pants and eased her hand down into my jeans. 

Finally, we kissed. 

Her tongue tasted of stale cigarettes and that night’s dinner; pizza, I think.  She hadn’t even bothered to brush her teeth.

Not that I had.

Our hands flowed over one another; mine caressing her fabulous breasts, hers trying to wrench the bratwurst from my Levi’s. 

She definitely lacked the soft touch of my dream-Amy.  Part of me regretted this, but a bigger part felt relieved.

Once liberated from my pants, she fumbled about with my prick, giving it an occasional jerk that proved more painful than pleasurable.  She came off as one with little experience in the handling of phalluses, which contradicted my former image of her as a biker chick. 

I wasn’t about to complain: even bad sex was better than no sex at all. 

When she realized that her rough-handed sleeve job did not produce the desired effect, she lowered herself onto her knees, took me into her mouth and ran her tongue around and around the shaft. 

It felt wonderful.  It felt magnificent—and for some reason it scared the hell out of me.  I couldn’t fully purge the image of the dream-Amy turning into a monster and biting off my prick.  However, that didn’t stop me from achieving blue-steel rigidity. 

When my hardness met with her satisfaction, Amy laid back on the cold tiles.  A shudder swept through her and when she recovered, she spread her legs invitingly.

Although little of the experience—other than the location—jibed with the events of my dream, this deviation surprised and delighted me.  My fantasy Amy had not invited me into any orifice other than her mouth.  Also, the blowjob of my dream had been an event worthy of a Hallmark card; what I had just received could not compare, but at least my penis remained intact.

It then occurred to me that maybe my instincts had been wrong all along.  I had been trying to turn fantasy into reality.  This Amy wasn’t a game-player with monstrous potential, but merely a horny woman looking for a little action. 

So my instincts were wrong. 

I could live with that. 

After all, it had happened before. 

So I lied atop Amy and let nature take its course.

She must have wanted this for a long time: she became a woman possessed—but not in the horrific way I still half-expected.  The moment I entered her, she started moaning and pawing at my back like a cat at a scratching post.  As my strokes sped up and deepened, she arched her hips so my thrusts would penetrate as deeply as possible. 

As often happens in such circumstances, time lost all significance as we abandoned ourselves to the heated rhythm.  Minutes and hours blurred into a meaningless froth of lust and release; all that mattered was rhythm, rhythm and sensation.

Sweat nearly poured from my forehead, then my chest and hips as I thrust; I lost awareness of everything except the pale yet luscious body beneath me, the warmth and wetness of her, the sounds of her moans, her lusty panting.  We did not bother with tenderness, but released the savages within, abandoning inhibition, reveling in the raw, primate lust that consumed us, releasing long pent tension, ruled by the rhythm, the pounding, forceful rhythm of unleashed desire.

Her panting and moaning quickly advanced to wails of delight.  I felt her body shiver beneath me as wave after wave of orgasm swept through her like wildfire—and still she wanted more.

“Give it to me!  Uh, huh!  Do me deep—that’s it….  Yes!  Harder!”  Finally, she screamed—not in pain, but in ecstasy.  And still she thrust—if anything, harder than before.

I forgot all about my dream-Amy, lost in the frantic rhythms of pleasure, pumping harder and harder….

“Oh, God,” she screamed, thrusting against me with even more force.

Yes, everything was okay.  Everything turned out just fine.  This rapidly became the best time I’d had in a very long time, at least in the waking world.  I reminded myself to ask her out again when—and if—we ever stopped, but the thought became lost in the frenzied, rhythmic ecstasy.  I was about to climax, but I forced it down with images of baseball. 

Not yet… make it last! 

However, sports imagery would not stem the flow this time.  My semen wanted out, and right now!

But before I had a chance to ejaculate, a wind seemed to blow through my mind, temporarily clearing away the filmy veil of my lust.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

Up to that moment, I had lost track of everything: my location, the time that had elapsed, who I was with…. 

But then, suddenly, everything came clear. 

Too clear.

For the first time in… how long; eternity?  I looked down at Amy, but she had changed.  At first, it seemed an improvement, though I had a sickening feeling that this impression would not last.

It was her, my dream-Amy: auburn hair flinging around in a frenzy as she thrust upward, forcing me deep inside her; teenage Amy, her green eyes rolled up to the heavens (or, realistically, the fluorescent lights in the ceiling), her perfect and supple form sensuously accentuated by a full body tan….

And she was strong.  Very strong. 

The moment I realized that she had changed, I tried to roll off her.  But she pulled me down, held me tight and continued thrusting like mad.

Her emerald eyes rolled down to look at me, but they weren’t green any more.  Now red—all red, not just the irises—they shone like a devil’s eyes.  Her face transformed into a sickly green mask that broke into a smile, revealing long, sharp, wicked-looking daggers. 

Nor were these the only teeth that she had.

I tried again to push myself away from her—more forcefully this time—and something unexpected and horribly painful happened: her vagina clamped down on my penis like a vice with fangs. 

The phrase, “Snapping clams!” zipped through my tortured mind and for a fraction of a second my face entertained thoughts of smiling.  Perhaps my sick brain worked a trifle faster than my pain receptor neurons, but the agony quickly registered, and before I could as much as grimace.

I screamed in both agony and the hopes that someone might hear me and call the cops.  But even as the shriek flew from my mouth, I knew it would do me no good.  We were nowhere near any people. 

No one would help me; I was on my own.

This was why I’d brought the Buck Knife along in the first place.  The only problem was that I couldn’t reach it.  She—it—held me down on her chest and my pants had bunched up at my knees.

The pain in my crotch was awful, but nothing when compared to my terror.  As I watched in horror, her face began to change: her jaw lengthened as her cheeks puffed out into a wicked caricature of a jack-o-lantern carved from an un-ripened pumpkin.  Her nose grew longer and hooked downward like a witch’s beak.  Beneath my chest, I felt scales sprouting from her skin.

I screamed again—this time out of terror—and she cackled a horrid, screeching laugh in response.

And, as in the nightmare, I could feel something like an obscenely long, narrow tongue within her vagina, caressing my cock, trying to coax the semen out of it.  And I knew—was absolutely certain—that she would get it… again.  That’s what she wanted.  That’s all that she wanted.  For reasons I couldn’t fathom, this creature lived on the ejaculate of unwary, horny men.  Oh, she would get it—that much was certain. 

Then she would kill me.

My survival instincts took over.  I had no time to waste.  I knew I couldn’t hold out from this hell-borne creature’s caresses for much longer. 

I got my right arm free from the thing’s bear hug, then started kicking my legs up toward my back, looking a lot like a spastic sea lion I suspected but didn’t care.  My first attempt proved futile, but on the second try, the belt brushed against my fingers.  I would have to be careful not to pull the belt out of the pants loops or the sheath holding the knife would fall out of reach. 

Then I’d really be screwed. 

I kicked again, but the belt merely brushed against my fingers again.

The small but sharp teeth in the thing’s vagina clamped down harder on my cock and I cried out with the pain. 

I think it knew what I was trying to do.

I kicked again and my index finger curled around the middle belt-loop, but I couldn’t hold on.  Again, it slipped away.

The disgusting vaginal tongue swirled and twisted around my prick, massaging it.  I wouldn’t be able to hold out for much longer.  Even images of baseball failed to deflate my shaft.

Again, I flopped on top of the monster like a fish out of water, kicking my pants up toward my eager fingers.  My thumb brushed against the belt, and then it slipped away.

I could feel the climax coming… any second now.  Even the certainty that I would be killed immediately afterward did nothing to dissuade my raging erection.  I could do nothing to stop it.

So I kicked again—and my pinkie finger snagged the belt. 

Immediately, it started to slip through the belt loops.  I felt around frantically with my fingers, searching for a loop—or, better yet, the knife itself.  But all I got was belt—and it slid through the loops faster with every passing second.  In a moment it would come free from the loops and my Buck Knife would fall to the ground, well out of reach. 

Then the monster would win, claiming my essence, then my life in victory.

I arched my back to a point that I thought would snap it and grabbed blindly at the belt—

And there it was!  My fingers curled around the smooth, black leather sheath.  Nothing had ever felt as good in my hand.  I pulled and the sheath came free of the belt, which had fallen completely out of the loops. 

That had been close.

Meanwhile, the creature beneath me continued to morph into something even more hideous.  Its ears grew long and pointy.  Yellowish, slimy goo dribbled from its nose, running over the misshapen cheeks.  A tongue at least two feet long lolled out of its mouth as if it had a will of its own (I nearly expected a snake charmer to emerge from one of the bathroom stalls and start serenading the putrid thing).  It slithered toward my face and I tried to back away from it, but to no avail: the repulsive appendage smacked wetly against my cheek and I nearly threw up into the creature’s gaping mouth.

I had never had trouble opening the knife-sheath in the past: just a flick of the thumb and it was open. 

Now though, when I needed it the most, it resisted my efforts.

The creature’s obscene tongue (the one in its mouth) continued to caress my face, causing me to retch again and again.  I could see puss-filled boils dotting the horribly long thing—could feel the boils burst against my cheek, spilling warm, stinking puss on my face.  I retched again and pulled my head back as far as I could, but it wasn’t far enough.

It seemed to take an eternity to open the sheath, although in reality no more than a few seconds could’ve passed. 

Then, suddenly, it popped open.  With practiced skill, I grasped the back edge of the knife and flicked it open. 

Click! 

The most satisfying sound I had ever heard.

At the sound of the blade clicking open, the creature stopped pumping upward in mid-thrust; its expression faltered, then changed to one of alarm. 

The new expression was more to my liking and I smiled viciously. 

I said, “Let’s party, bitch!” with so much menace, it surprised even me. 

I raised the knife and plunged it deep into the monster’s belly, wriggling it around to thoroughly scramble the beast’s innards. 

The creature screamed—a surprisingly human sound—and struggled beneath me.  It writhed in an agony I found more than a little entertaining, uttering a series of staccato moans in rapid succession. 

Then it released a final sigh and collapsed beneath me.

That was easier than I had expected.

And my timing could not have been better: I ejaculated just as the knife plunged into the thing’s stomach. 

I rolled off the monster and lay there panting.  Once I caught my breath, I lifted my head just enough to check the status of my cock.  Fortunately, it appeared intact.  In fact, I saw not so much as a tooth mark on it. 

Boy, had I been lucky.

I don’t know for how long I laid there, but it felt like hours.  Despite the stench of urine, those cold tiles felt wonderful on my sweaty back.  I finally had to get up, though.  A strong urge had sprung up in my bowels suddenly, an urge I could not ignore. 

Careful not to look at the disemboweled nightmare lying on the floor, I waddled over to one of the stalls, my pants now bunched around my ankles. 

As I took a seat, I swung the stall door shut: the very stall door from which I had copied Amy’s message.

I stared at the door, unbelieving.  I had just been there that afternoon, and….

The tingling—still present but only sensed subliminally until now—rose up to conquer my entire body, from my knobby, misshapen toes to the tip of my pointy head.  Shivering with acute fright, I stared intently at the door, but nothing changed.

The owner of the boathouse couldn’t have painted the stall door that day.  I would’ve smelled it.  Even if he had, the door wouldn’t have filled up with graffiti this fast.

The high-pitched tone was joined by others, dozens; they rang like church bells, and my head was the carillon.  If a hundred squad cars had sped into the parking lot at that moment with their sirens wailing, I wouldn’t have heard them.  Those notes—those burrowing tones—had become my entire auditory universe. 

No…  It couldn’t be….

There, scrawled on the door, I saw several crude jokes (and one that would have struck me as actually funny had my sense of humor not been obliterated by the raging bells), a few rude drawings, a number of names with dates written below them and a whole lot of “For a good time, call”s—but where was Amy’s message?

I could feel my pulse rise and my hands started shaking uncontrollably.  I searched the door again, then both sides of the stall, but couldn’t find Amy’s note.  Trepidation swept through my body and I lost my peristaltic urge. 

At that point, all I wanted to do was vomit.

No, no… NO!

I shot up and out of the stall, somehow remembering to pull up my pants as I went, and pushed my way into the other stall, slamming the door open with such force it sounded like a gunshot.

I was absolutely certain that I had copied Amy’s number from the door of the first stall.  I could not have been surer of myself.  Yet a slim possibility existed that I could have been wrong.  It doesn’t happen often, but it happens.  So I swung the door to the second stall closed once I had cleared it and scrutinized the graffiti scrawled across its inner surface.

Though the sentiments on this door—and the sides of the stall as well—bore a striking similarity to those in the other stall, not one notice mentioned anyone by the name of Amy.

Ringing, clanging, threatening to shatter my skull from within, the clamor of the bells eliminated every sound vibration in my universe except those that they created.  A bright visual flash now accompanied each brash clank of every one of the dozen or so bells, as if they triggered blinding fireworks with every clapper-strike.

So this is what it feels like to go insane, I thought, knowing at least on one level that it might be the last rational thought I experienced.

Amy’s message did not exist; it may have never existed.

So Amy did not exist… right?

I pulled the stall door open but could not initially move my legs.

I had to see, had to know the truth but could not bear it. 

Just a figment, Bill.

Right.  Sure.  At that point, I might believe anything.

Bracing myself against the sides of the stall for support, barely able to keep my knees from buckling beneath me, I forced myself to move forward, out of the stall.  I turned to the right and stepped slowly around the first stall I had entered.  Only then did I realize that my eyes were squeezed tightly shut. 

I had to open them, had to see, had to know.

Try as I might, my eyelids would not raise.  I tried to trick them into opening by counting down from three, then from five, then from ten, but they refused to fall for my ploys.  I even tried to pry them open with my fingers, but my eyelids turned out to be stronger than my fingers, at least for the moment.

A siren wailed through the night outside.

The vehicle blaring the wail did not sound as if it were approaching; in fact, the siren began to fade with distance within seconds.

It did, however, pop my eyes open when nothing else would.

I could not look down initially, not that it mattered.  Evidence of the carnage I had wrought had splattered three of the room’s walls. 

The place looked like an abattoir.

Finally, I forced my gaze downward.

There she laid, in a pool of her own blood on the restroom floor, my Buck Knife sticking out of her belly. 

Amy. 

Black-haired, brown eyed Amy. 

Pale-skinned, thirty-something Amy. 

Poor horny old Amy.

“No… NO!”  I wailed again.  “I didn’t do it!  It wasn’t her!”  But no one heard my pleas. 

No one.

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