I could have kissed the little minx out of sheer, unadulterated pride. First time out of the box and she kills a man—with a high heel, no less. Just contrast that with the first time I saw her in a dumpy skirt combo, flat shoes and tattered beige cardigan.

She ain't a mouse no more, that's for sure.

My first time was much less clean, but it was just as sweetly symbolic. I strangled one of my mother's pimps with the belt he used to beat me with, and let me tell you that is not a simple task for a ten year old, even one as big as I was.

I could tell she would do it again. She locked her elbows in the supports, cocked her leg back, and waited for the next hapless motherfucker to try and get her.

That's my delicious little killer, my pretty blond birdie perched high on the ceiling. She's going to have to come down if she doesn't want to faint and slide off, to meet the same fate she inflicted on the bastard cooling near my feet. Considering how well she did, I can be a little persuasive.

I had the idiots go hold up a nice restaurant for a chef, some gear, and steaks. This, at least, they got right. The chef must have put up a hell of a fight, because they beat the shit out of him before they shoved him into the warehouse. Motherfucker was nearly toothless in the front, and I was surprised he didn't shank a few of them from the way he was eyeballing the lot of them. He paled when he saw me, sprawled on my chair.

Naughty idiots, they didn't tell the asshole who he was going to be cooking for.

He didn't faint, but from the look on his face, it was a near thing. I told him what I wanted, and he set up a fair workstation and got to it without any further complaints. I watched her, instead, waiting to see if she would crawl down and live, or stay up there until she fell to the concrete floor.

It took her an hour, but she finally crawled down the beams, giving the room a rather nice view of her ass in the process. She was almost purple from embarrassment by the time she stood on the floor, and then she went pale again looking at the corpse.

Never let it be said that I'm not a good host, when I want to be. I shepherded her to the table I had them drag in, settled her in a chair, tucked a napkin in her lap, and pushed her chair in. Her eyes were on the corpse the whole time, face flushing and going pale over and over.

She ate, though. Surprisingly well for someone in her condition—she tried to start the meal using a fork, but gave up by the third bite. She picked the steak up with her bare hands and savaged it. I could practically see her body taking over so she didn't think herself to death. I don't even think she realized she was eating.

When she'd cleared the plate, I decided what I was going to do about it.

I haven't hunted animals myself—humans, sure. Just not other animals. I'm told that for your first kill, they mark you with blood. From the way she's been staring at the corpse, the gesture is an appropriate amount of violation. I stood, the chair squealing and making her jump, and ran my fingers through the dirt and the blood on the floor. I don't think she realized what I was going to do with it until I was nearly on top of her and it was way too late to run.

I daubed it on her cheeks and forehead, just a rough stripe, and picked her up, throwing her over a shoulder. I told the idiots to let the chef go. He'd carry a tale, another nail in her coffin, and I was about to be too busy to want to be interrupted by their simple pleasures.

She didn't even struggle. I'm sure we're probably at her limit for outrage, for at least a little while, not that it's going to stop. But she's probably going to be a bit passive for a little while.

Long as it doesn't last too long, it's fine with me. Besides, I have my ways of drawing her out.

And as it turns out, a touch of gentleness was just right. I don't think she's come that hard since we started this little process. I could see something breaking behind her wide-open eyes right before she came.

It was incredibly hot.

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