The Killing Kind by Bryan Smith Read Free Book Online

wrongness of it. Revel in it. Just dive into that silky soft mound of succulent, tender girl flesh and put a fucking onher that would make her head spin for days. Thinking of it made his cock stir. God, what he’d give to have sweet little Julie for real.
    But no such luck.
    This was no mystery woman, no stranger to his bed. This was his wife of twenty years. A woman he’d once lusted after intensely. But now he could hardly stand to look at her. It’d been ten years since he’d fucked another woman and he’d almost forgotten what it was like to caress unfamiliar flesh. For a while that had been okay. It was the way of things. You get older and settle down, leave the tomcatting around to the younger guys. John had accepted this as his lot for some time, but lately, ever since his recent fortieth birthday, he’d begun to feel restless. He couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that he was wasting what was left of his…well, not youth, obviously, more like that last dwindling slice of time when he might still possess some virility or fading attractiveness to the opposite sex. No, not youth, more like the last fading echoes of youth, and he didn’t—
    Christ.
    He reflected on his last thoughts and felt disgust. He was a man. And real men didn’t wallow in self-pity. He was self-aware enough to know he was on the verge of a stereotypical midlife crisis. Most men in his position would seek the help of a therapist, or perhaps slake that renewed thirst for strange flesh by blowing a wad in some cheap hooker’s mouth. But he needed something better than that.
    A dramatic change.
    A forever change.
    And the time for that change had arrived at last. He stepped closer to the bed, curling his fingers tighter around the blade of the carving knife as he searched Karen’s face for any signs of impending wakefulness. He’d stashed the knife in the bathroom closet several hours earlier, while Karen had been so immersed in that night’s episode of Survivor that she’d been oblivious to anything he was doing. Which included the twenty-plus minutes he’d spent locked in the bathroom, slowly masturbating to pictures of Julie stored on his cell phone. Mostly these were pictures taken on the sly, when she wasn’t looking or didn’t know he was around. But the one that got to him the most was the one she did know about. A candid shot snapped at his daughter’s tenth birthday party last week. He’d made some lame joke and she’d laughed and stuck her tongue out at him. He stared at that picture for minutes, at that wedge of glistening tongue protruding between glossy, pink-painted lips. That was the image that got him over the edge, making him come harder than he ever did with Karen these days.
    He circled the bed and then stood staring down at his wife, knife held at shoulder level, hand shaking, his soul burning with the need to bury the blade in the sleeping woman’s body. A latex glove was on his right hand. When she was dead—and after he’d inflicted a few superficial wounds on his own body—the glove would go down the toilet. Then he’d call the cops with his practiced sob story about a masked assailant. He was sure he would be convincing enough in his fake grief to make them buy the story.
    But he wondered about his daughter. Nancy was asleep in her own room at the far end of the hall. She should be asleep. It was well past her strict bedtime. Still, it bore thinking about. The cops would question her, maybe ask her if she’d heard anything. John debated the idea of killing his daughter before dealing with Karen. On the upside, dead girls tell no tales. Downside, he’d leave telltale signs of blood and possibly other evidence, traipsing back and forth between her room and here. No, he’d just have to take his chances. Odds were she was stone asleep, and if not, he’d figure a way to deal with it.
    Meanwhile, it was time to stop fucking around and do this thing. His lips curled into a sneer as he raised the