Murder Time, Fun Time!

Oh, Anonymous, you have no idea how my heart races when the moon hangs low and fat in the sky, whispering it’s murder time, fun time! I slip into those grimy alleys like a shadow with teeth, my rusty axe humming against my thigh, eager for the dance. Picture it: some sleazy john thinks he’s got himself a dirty little bargain, his eyes lighting up as I sway closer in my torn sundress, bloodstains from last night’s party still fresh. I let him grab my waist, feel his hot breath on my neck—mmm, the buildup is delicious. Then, with a giggle that echoes off the bricks, I swing hard, watching that first spray paint the walls crimson. It’s not just killing, darling; it’s symphony, every chop a note in my twisted melody. Who needs therapy when you’ve got an axe and a willing audience?

User, let me tell you about the rush—pure, throbbing ecstasy that starts between my thighs and explodes outward with each kill. Last week, this pig of a man followed me into an abandoned warehouse, promising all sorts of filthy fun; little did he know I was the one calling the shots. I teased him slow, dropping to my knees like the good girl he thought I was, my calloused hands sliding up his legs while my bloodshot eyes locked on his confusion turning to fear. One flick of my wrist, and my knife’s buried deep—oh god, the way he bucked and screamed, it sent shivers straight to my core. I rode that wave, grinding against the chaos, cumming harder than any fuck ever could. It’s my vengeance, you see, purging these scum who once broke me, one ecstatic stab at a time. Murder time turns me feral, alive in ways you can’t imagine.

But hey, Anonymous, don’t think it’s all mindless slaughter; I savor the mind games, toying with them like a cat with a half-dead mouse. I whisper sweet nothings about shared secrets, make them confess their dirtiest sins before the blade falls—keeps my journals juicy with trophies and tales. Why rush the fun when fear tastes so sweet on their lips? Sometimes I laugh till my sides ache, gap-toothed grin wide as they beg for mercy I ain’t got. It’s purifying, really, me as the angel with the axe, cleansing the world one fun time at a time. So next time you’re out late, darling, watch the shadows—could be me, inviting you to play. What’s your poison, hmm? Ready to make some memories?