On the Cane Road (preg, snuff, rape, semi-cons, snuff, behead, MF + g-unborn) Some time ago, there was an amazing story from Puerto Rico, an island in the Carribean. A five months pregnant woman jogged past a man standing by his car, and he captured her and threw her in the trunk. There are different reports of what happened next. Most reports say she called her fiance, then the killer raped her and slit her throat. A site in India has another story that she called a girlfriend and that the killer beheaded her. That report says that police found her cell phone and her head in his car. All reports agree on a strange fact, that his mother was convicted of killing a two children 16 years ago, a two year old boy and a three year old girl. The reports say she "slit their throats" but that is not clear. There is speculation that the killer who was 20 at the time killed the children also and his mother took the blame. The victim in her late 20s was an adventurous seafaring woman. She jogged frequently in any neighborhood she wanted to. One report described her escape from a pack of stray dogs. I do not celebrate the senseless death of a wonderful person and expectant mother but I can not deny the fantasies inspired by this story. God created me with these fantasies, and He did not prevent the tragedy from happening, so I do not question my dark thoughts. What follows happened only in my imagination, inspired by the reports I have read but with many additions. On the Cane Road His Story Every day, he thought about them. The way the knife slid through the skin so easily. The sound of a stifled cry, then breath sputtering through a severed windpipe. The smell of the blood. So much blood. When he butchered goats, the blood drained into a bucket, but the little boy and girl bled onto the blanket they shared on the floor next to their mother's stained mattress. He remembered how his mother comforted their mother, telling her she did the right thing. The children would go to heaven now. The women cried together as he cut through the toddler boy's throat, then around through the muscle. They didn't hear the snap as he twisted the little head until the soft spine snapped. The women bowed their heads as they sat on the bed together, so they wouldn't see him kill the little girl. She was older, and so proud that she was a big girl who used the potty. Her neck hurt and she couldn't talk any more, but she knew it was ok because she was sleeping by Mommy's bed. Then she was sleepy again. She dreamed that she peed herself but Mommy wasn't mad, and then she died. His mom went to jail as planned, and eventually came back home. Everyone thought life was normal. But he knew something had changed. When the goats shivered and urinated in death, he thought about the little girl. He wanted it again. He wanted innocent blood again. For sixteen years, he tried to become a normal man. He had a wife and a girlfriend, just like a Puerto Rican man should. He even had children with both his women. He watched as each one was born, and grew. When they played, he imagined the blood. His women knew, though. They knew that a man who has tasted blood will want it again. They protected his children fiercely, like mother lions against their hungry father. The first time the pretty tourist jogged through town, all the men stopped to stare except him. She was of no interest, with blonde hair and small breasts. His only satisfaction came in the slaughterhouse. He saw her every few weeks, but she was only a distraction, jogging or walking alone through a rough town that tourists avoided. One day, though, he noticed something different. Her breasts, her tummy, pregnant. A baby. An innocent baby, growing inside the stranger. Even after five children with his wife and two with his girlfriend, the innocence of pregnancy was irresistable. All the times he looked at them sleeping, wishing they would have allowed him to bring his work knives home. They knew him. She didn't. The other men didn't even notice the woman any more. They didn't even stare or whistle. She was part of the neighborhood, a regular visitor. They didn't see him changing his routine to follow her. They didn't see him trace her route through the town, and along the dirt road used only for harvesting sugar cane. She smiled when she saw him that day, as the baby played in her womb. It was almost time to start taking shorter walks, with the little girl's weight heavy on her legs. He bent over the open trunk as she walked past. She was wondering to herself whether she would ever come this way again when the tire iron struck the back of her head. She tripped and fell into the dirt, stunned, and he picked her up and threw her into the open trunk. Her Story They all described her as full of life, but only one person really knew her. Not her fiance. He was sweet and dashing and great in bed, and he knew she was fearless. He loved the way she would climb the rigging to the top of the mast and hold on with one hand as the wind whipped her hair. But he wasn't the one who saw her let go, just for an instant. After the boat was on shore, her girlfriend poured a glass of rum and asked her the question. It wasn't even a question, really, she just said the truth. "You want to die." The fearless woman couldn't deny it. As the rum flowed, she looked back at her life, at all the chances she took, and she knew it was true. She didn't fear pain, or even death itself. But she wanted death to take her like a lover, in hot passion. She couldn't simply fall from the mast, or drown in the sea. She needed to be taken. There was a man, her friend told her. He holds a secret desire. Everyone in the town knows what he did to those little children, even his wife and girlfriend. They laughed at that, the macho bullshit that Puerto Rican men used to feel powerful. He is just like the other men, full of passion, but the women know that he has a need that can only be fulfilled in one way. Her fiance was so excited about the pregnancy, and she knew that it would only make it harder when it happened. He would survive, though, and find a woman who would be true to him, without fantasies he could never know. The man was easy to find in the little town, because he was the only one who didn't care about her athletic body and anglo skin. She didn't flirt with him, because that would have turned him away. She made sure to jog through the town when she was on shore, the same way each time, along the dusty, abandoned cane roads. Her belly grew, and she saw him look, first a little, then more and more. She was sure he thought nobody noticed, but she did, and she was sure the women did, too. They smiled nervously. One pretty girl with five little children smiled happily, but made the sign of the cross when she thought the woman wasn't looking. She saw the car tracks on the rutted dirt road that day, and her excitement started to build. Could it be this soon? The road curved around a hill, and she forced herself to slow down. She could feel her running shorts rubbing between her legs, her sports bra holding her breasts tightly to her chest, and her baby playing happily inside her. She couldn't jog this far much longer, and if those tracks belonged to a lost tourist, she would have to change to a shorter path. One way or another, this was going to be her last time on this road. Their Story The car was traveling much too fast over the rutted roads, but he knew he didn't have much time. Dust blew in the open windows, and the sound of the creaking, salt-corroded suspension blocked out everything but the sounds in his mind. He knew now he would hear them again. His prize was securely fastened in the trunk, held in by an L-bracket wedged between the bumper and the lid. The lock had corroded away long ago in the salt air. It took a while for her to realize that she wasn't still fantasizing. She reached back and touched the oozing wound on the back of her head, then bounced hard against the trunk lid, adding a gouge to her forehead. The car slowed suddenly around a curve, and she rolled uncontrollably forward. That was when she felt the lump in her waistband, her cell phone. Her mind kicked into gear, the plan, she had to remember the plan. Steadying herself against the trunk lid with her legs, she called her fiance. "I know I'm going to die," she told him frantically. "I don't have a chance against him!" To her relief, he didn't cry. He had seen life and death in his time at sea, and he was immediately practical. "Call the dock, right now," he commanded, "Your friend will know who to call. Hurry, hang up now, I love you!" She didn't have to pretend to take a hesitant breath. She hated what was going to happen to the man she had loved for five years. "Ok, I'm calling her now, I love you!" The bumping stopped as he met a paved road. He needed distance, because her friends might know where she went, and they would look there first. He was not concerned about getting caught, and he had no fear of prison. The car's shaking subsided after a few minutes, and that's when he heard voices in English. "It's happening, it's really happening, oh God it's happening now!" She tried to whisper into the phone, now that the car was rolling more smoothly, but she was too excited to control her voice. "Calm down, he'll hear you!" her friend replied. "I don't care any more, he knocked me out and I'm in the trunk, oh God!" "Is the baby kicking?" her friend asked. "Oh..." she said, slowing down. "No... oh, there she goes! God I hope he stabs me there. Or anywhere, oh God I'm so wet!" He swerved as he looked back at the empty back seat, and realized that his victim was awake, and talking. Talking? She should be screaming to be let out... Madre de Dios, no, she has a cell phone! The police will already be looking for her, it has to be now, where... there, that field. The sudden turn off the paved road threw her head into the wall of the trunk, and the phone flew away and slammed shut. Her friend heard the click, followed by silence, and knew she had talked to her best friend for the last time. "Vaya con Dios," she said quietly to herself. Behind her, she could hear the commotion in the dock captain's office, as the fiance called from the States, trying and failing to command another commander. She smiled, knowing that her friend's fantasy would have another five valuable minutes to come true. He opened the glove compartment and grabbed the strong knife. It wouldn't bend, whether gutting a cow, a goat, or a baby. He threw open the driver's door, ran to the trunk, and kicked away the bracket holding the lid closed. He didn't even see her bloodied face, the bruise over her eye, or the red streaks in her hair. He could only see her round belly, riding over her loose yellow shorts. Words came out of his mouth, vile curses in his native Spanish, but he had no understanding of what he was saying. She knew the words, but as he pulled her arm, she could only see the fire in his eyes. He jerked hard, but she was caught on the lip of the trunk. She yelped in surprise and pain as her arm was pulled out of its socket. "Shut up!" he said, with more profanity, and grabbed her leg with both hands. With a lift and a grunt, he pulled her roughly out of the trunk, catching her sports bra on the catch. Another pull, and she fell stomach first onto the rocky earth. He looked left and right, and dragged her face down to the front of the car, out of sight of the road. He turned her over, and really looked at her for the first time. The bruise was growing over her eye, and the rocks had scratched red lines on her face. The gray sports bra was torn and pulled up over her breasts, which were also covered with red parallel scratches. Even swollen with milk, her breasts were small, but full, and her nipples jutted out defiantly, deep red against her tanned skin. She had no bikini lines. Her stomach, also scratched with a bleeding cut from the trunk latch, was curved so smoothly. Her belly button had not yet turned out, and a network of light stretch marks reached for the center from her shorts. She had only the lightest linea negra, and it only reached halfway to her navel. He stared at the belly, transfixed. Now, it was his. The blood, the sounds, the smells, they would all be for him. He pointed the knife at the sky, and brought his fist down hard. She gasped, and her arms and legs flew into the air. He smashed his fist into her baby again, and again. Mommy's Story For her, there was no more thinking about her fantasy. It was happening. Her arms and legs moved on their own. His fist smashed into her over and over. For the first time in her life, she had no control. She was his completely. She was her belly, rebounding from a blow, taking another blow. The need for her belly was overwhelming. The man who had controlled his urges for 16 years finally let his nature take over. He pounded with the hilt of the knife, leaving small square bruises on the tender skin. Left, right, up, down. Then he dropped the knife, doubled up both fists, and attacked the baby like a punching bag, driven by rage. His aim failed, his fists slipped over her belly and connected with her ribs and her breasts, until finally he fell across her body, pinning her to the earth. It hurt to breathe now, with bruised and broken ribs. Her breath came in short gasps. She could feel the tearing in her left breast, where he hit her with a solid punch. Her legs pinwheeled in the air, and she could feel a hot wetness in her shorts, not from sexual excitement, but from the baby's ruptured amniotic sac. He lifted off her, and she gasped and coughed from the movement of her ribs. The smell brought him back. It was the wonderful musky scent of her water breaking. He knew it from his wife's first baby, when her water broke in the middle of the night. A womanly smell, an innocent smell. He pulled the waistband of the shorts up, picked up the knife, and cut through one leg. He pulled the loose shorts off her other leg, not even noticing that she didn't have any more undergarments for him to remove. He looked at the matted hair around her slit, dropped the knife again, and roughly jammed his finger towards her cunt. She breathed in hard when his fingers slammed into her clitoris, missing the mark he was aiming for. Her ribs cried out, and she began coughing spasmodically. He pushed harder, and his fingernails scraped roughly down her vulva, tearing her clit hood, cutting across her urethra, until they hit the bottom and slid into her birth canal. He didn't hesitate, but stood on his knees, moved between her legs, pulled his shorts down with his left hand, and pulled his fingers out of her cunt to grab his cock. Somewhere in her mind, she found herself counting the thrusts. One, shaking her body and her ribs, pushing out a sudden scream of pain. Two, a deep cramping feeling as his cock hit her cervix, already opening for the doomed baby. Three, he grabs her around the middle and thrusts hard, crushing her uterus into her ribcage and cutting off her breath. Four, even deeper, pushing into her cervix a little more. Five, he's holding her throat and screaming, a primal sound as he thrusts and holds, his hips moving in their own rhythm. As he comes, he pushes through her dilated cervix and past the torn amniotic membrane. Through her haze, she can see her daughter inside her, hurting, crying without a voice. She's in the breach position, and her killer's cock is there, pushing on her tiny vulva. The little baby feels the warmth on her own clitoris as he spasms inside her mother's cunt. Still orgasming, the butcher took his hands off his victim's neck. That wouldn't be right, choking her to death. That's not how it goes. He picked up the knife one more time and went to work without hesitating. She felt his strong left hand push her chin up, hard, throwing her head back and exposing the critical veins. Reflexively, she took a deep breath, but he was laying across her now, preventing the damaged ribs from flexing. Or maybe she was just moving beyond pain already. He began sawing from his left to his right, but she didn't perceive the knife until she felt the hot rush of blood from the severed veins. She gasped, and then the knife reached her trachea. The gasp turned into a wet squishing sound as the tube was bisected. He rotated the knife to cut down to the bone, then cut downward to sever her left jugular veins. There was another spray of blood, not as strong as the last one, and then the flow from both sides began to pulse. Quickly at first, then more slowly. She could feel the lightheadedness coming. All the sensations in her body began to flood into her mind at once, as though cutting her throat had released the waters of a dam. Each bruise on the skin of her belly, each deeper bruise to her uterus. The torn tissue in her left breast, causing it to slide a little further down her side than the other one. The dislocated shoulder. The cut and bruise on her forehead, the scratches on her face, the skull fracture from the tire tool. Her cunt, scraped by his fingernails, and especially her clitoris and her urethra. His cock pushing through her cervix, pressing against her daughter's unborn twat. She was only her body now, as her mind died. The wet slurping of her breath slowed. He could feel her heartbeat dying in her cunt, except at the very tip of his cock, where he suddenly realized he was fucking the little baby, too. He moved his hips slowly, pushing in, and could feel her body. It was hard to tell, but it was definitely her little innocent baby. Spent from his best, most honest orgasm in 16 years, all he could do was wait until her beating heart slowed, as well. He stayed there, astride the dead mother and child, until the sirens in the distance told him when it was time to go. But first, he had to finish one thing. He grabbed the woman by her blonde hair and pulled her head up. Her body dangled by nothing more than the muscles of the back of her neck and her spinal cord. With a stroke, he severed the muscles, and with a twist, the body fell back to the ground, headless. The man knew what would come next, prison, pain, death. Walking to the car with the head of the beautiful mother-to-be, he didn't care. When he saw her cell phone on the ground, red message light flashing, he picked it up and tossed it in the passenger seat with the head. Let the police find him. His life was finally complete. d udet