I woke up that morning with this fucking itch in my veins, the kind that only blood and guts can scratch. Fuck, I needed to get out, away from all the bullshit in North Gat Lake City, where everyone's pretending to be civilized while they're rotting inside. I decided right then: a week in the wilds, hunting down some worthless pieces of shit adventurers who think they're hot stuff wandering into the backcountry. I'd kill a few, carve out their organs for sale—livers, kidneys, hearts if they're fresh enough—and whatever spoils quick, I'd turn into my own twisted gourmet meals. Human meat's got that sweet, metallic tang when you cook it right. Goddamn, just thinking about it made my pussy throb.
I got ready like always, slathering on the thick makeup: black lipstick so dark it looks like dried blood, heavy black eyeshadow that makes my eyes pop like a demon's. I slipped into my black JK uniform—the skirt hugging my ass just right, the top tight against my tits. Underneath, black pantyhose, silky and sheer, clinging to my legs like a second skin. Then the over-the-knee boots, leather so shiny they reflect my fucked-up grin. And the satin gloves, black and smooth, sliding up my arms. I had two identical sets packed, 'cause I wasn't about to let sweat or blood ruin my look. Weather was mild, thank fuck—no scorching heat to make me drip like a whore in heat. I'd keep clean, or as clean as a bitch like me gets during a slaughter fest.
My off-road RV was waiting in the garage of my villa in the Sea River North District suburbs. That beast is a goddamn tank on wheels—tires that chew up mud and rocks like they're nothing, engine purring like a satisfied lover. Inside, it's my mobile hellhole: stocked with sniper rifles, knives sharp enough to slice through bone like butter, coolers for organs, surgical tools, and a mini-fridge full of booze—whiskey, vodka, whatever poison hits the spot. Cartons of cigarettes, packs of betel nut to chew on for that buzzy high, bags of weed to smoke when I need to mellow out or amp up the freakshow. And the toys—oh, fuck, the toys. Vibrators, dildos, butt plugs, nipple clamps, a whole drawer of shit to make me cum while I plan my kills. I tossed in extra ammo, some cyanide vials just in case, and my silenced pistol for close work.
I hit the road early, blasting out of the city limits toward the wilds around North Gat Lake. The lake's this massive, shallow fucker—over 300,000 square kilometers of murky water bordering a bunch of no-name countries. But I was heading deeper, into the scrublands and forests hundreds of kilometers out, where the terrain turns to shit and only idiot thrill-seekers show up. No cops, no witnesses, just me and the prey. The RV handled the potholes and dirt tracks like a pro, suspension smoothing out the bumps so I could sip whiskey from a flask without spilling a drop.
By midday, I was deep in the ass-end of nowhere. Pulled the RV into a secluded spot behind some rocky outcrops, camouflaged it with branches and shit. First thing, I lit up a cigarette—inhaled deep, the smoke filling my lungs like a lover's breath, that nicotine rush hitting my brain and making everything sharper. Fuck, I love that burn. Chewed on some betel nut next, the juice staining my teeth red, that peppery kick waking up my senses. Poured a glass of whiskey, knocked it back, feeling the warmth spread through my chest, loosening me up. But I needed more. Slid my hand under my skirt, pulled aside the pantyhose just enough—shoved in a vibrating egg, remote in my glove-clad hand. Turned it on low, the buzz humming against my clit, building that slow fire in my gut. I leaned back on the RV's bed, legs spread, boots planted firm. Cranked it higher—waves of pleasure ripping through me, my hips bucking like a cheap slut. "Oh fuck, yes," I moaned, fingers pinching my nipples through the uniform, the satin gloves adding that slippery tease. Came hard, juices soaking the hose, but I didn't give a shit—wiped it off with a rag, kept the egg in for the hunt. That post-orgasm glow? Makes killing feel like foreplay.
Scouted the area with binoculars from a hilltop. Spotted my first victim: some dumbass hiker, mid-20s, backpack full of gear, wandering alone like he owned the place. Probably thought he was on some spiritual journey. Fucking idiot. I grabbed my sniper rifle—long-range beauty with a suppressor—and set up prone, boots digging into the dirt, gloves gripping the stock. The egg was still vibrating low inside me, keeping me wet and edgy. Lined up the shot—his head in the crosshairs. Pulled the trigger. Boom—his skull exploded like a rotten melon, brains splattering the rocks in pink and gray chunks, blood gushing from the crater where his face used to be. His body jerked, collapsed in a heap, twitching like a fish on a hook. I laughed, the thrill shooting straight to my cunt—turned up the vibrator, came again right there, moaning into the wind. "Take that, you worthless fuck! Your brains look like dog shit smeared on a wall!"
Dragged his corpse back to the RV—heavy bastard, but I'm strong from years of this crap. Stripped him down, noting the fresh organs. But first, playtime. I lit another cigarette, blew smoke over his cooling body. Chewed betel nut, the red spit dripping onto his chest. Poured whiskey down my throat, then splashed some on his wounds—watched it mix with the blood. High as fuck now, I sparked a joint, inhaling deep, the weed haze making everything dreamy and intense. Grabbed a dildo from the drawer—big, veiny one—lubed it up with his blood, fucked myself while staring at his mangled head. The vibrator egg buzzed in sync, double penetration sending shocks through me. "You pathetic cocksucker, your death's getting me off harder than your tiny dick ever could!" Orgasmed twice, screaming obscenities, body shaking.
Time for harvest. Switched gear: pulled on disposable coveralls over my uniform—white, crinkly shit to keep blood off my pretty clothes. Snapped on medical latex gloves, the rubber tight and clinical. Mask and goggles too. Laid him out on a tarp in the RV's back compartment. Sliced open his abdomen with a scalpel—guts spilling out in a steamy, stinking mess. Peeled back the skin, exposing the organs. Heart was ruined from the shock, so I carved it out anyway—chopped it fine, planning to sauté it later with onions and garlic. "Look at this floppy piece of shit heart, you spineless prick—couldn't even beat right in the end." Kidneys looked prime—cut them free, veins dangling like worms, packed in ice for sale. Livers too, fatty but sellable. The rest? I hacked off limbs for bones, bagged the meat for meals. Blood everywhere, but the coveralls caught it. Finished, I stripped the dirty gear, burned it in a pit outside—flames licking up the evidence. Back in my JK getup, egg still buzzing, I cooked up some thigh steak—seared it rare, blood pooling on the plate. Ate it with whiskey, savoring the gamey flavor. "Tastes like victory, you dead fucker."
That was day one. The week blurred into a haze of hunts and highs. Day two: another adventurer, this one a chick—blonde, fit, probably thinking she was empowering herself or some bullshit. Sniped her from afar—bullet through the eye, socket bursting like a popped cherry, eyeball flying out in a gooey arc. Dragged her back, played with her corpse first. Smoked a cigar this time—thick, Cuban-style knockoff—puffing while I fingered myself over her tits. Chewed betel nut, spat on her face. Downed vodka shots, then used a butt plug on myself, riding it while the egg vibrated. "You stupid cunt, your eye's a fucking mess—looks like cum from a diseased dick!" Harvested her ovaries for the black market—twisted bonus—packed lungs and spleen. Turned her breasts into "filets," grilled 'em up. Slept that night in my uniform, boots on, gloves too—egg pulsing low, dreams full of screams.
Day three: group of two morons, guys camping. Ambushed 'em at dusk. Shot one in the gut—non-fatal, wanted him to suffer. He writhed, intestines looping out like bloody sausages, screaming like a bitch. "Shut the fuck up, you gutless worm! Your insides look like spaghetti from a whore's asshole!" Watched him bleed while I toyed with the other—tied him up, forced him to watch. Smoked weed, blew it in his face. Chewed betel, red drool on his cheek. Drank rum, shared none. Used nipple clamps on myself, pain mixing with the vibrator's buzz—came watching the first guy die slow. Then exploded the second's head point-blank with the pistol—brains spraying my boots, but I wiped 'em clean. "Boom, motherfucker! Your skull's confetti now!" Harvest: switched to latex gloves and coveralls, extracted pristine organs—corneas, pancreas. Burned the mess after. Ate liver pâté from one, high as balls.
Days four through six: more kills. A lone wanderer—snipe to the chest, ribs shattering like brittle candy, lungs collapsing in frothy blood. "Die wheezing, you air-sucking fag!" Played with toys: double dildo action, egg on high, orgasming to his gurgles. Another pair—made one eat the other's finger before shooting 'em both. "Choke on it, you cannibalistic shithead!" Organs galore: sold the long-shelf ones via my contacts later, ate the perishables—kidney stew, heart tacos. Always the ritual: smoke, chew, drink, fuck myself senseless with the arsenal—vibrators in every hole, clamps biting, highs stacking till I blacked out in ecstasy.
By day seven, I was loaded: coolers full of iced organs, belly stuffed with man-meat delicacies. Felt like a goddamn queen. Packed up the RV, drove back those hundreds of kilometers, egg still in, vibrating me to one last roadside cum. "Fuck all those dead assholes—your parts are my payday!"