Joan knew what she was getting into, becoming sexually involved with a serial killer, one who took such pleasure in torture and murder. She had no illusions about what he was and what he wanted, so really, while this was a surprise when it happened, it was also somewhat expected.

She gasped when he pressed the blade against her skin, wondering how much pressure it would take for the knife to draw blood, and how much more for it to release a fountain of blood from her jugular. She trusted him...but she also feared this. He loved her, but he also desired the thrill of the kill. What if he lost control of himself? It would take a split second, a tiny slip, for him to slit her throat. It was terrifying, and god, so hot. He was fucking her hard, slamming into her, grinding against her, and her pleasure was through the roof, perhaps in spite of the fear but more likely because of it.

"Martin," she cried out, and her conflict was conveyed in the pleading tone of her voice. Please, don't kill me. Please, fuck me harder.