F4A - Some say she's a man-eater.

She slides the metal hook slowly between his bound wrists. He is unconscious right now, but that is something to correct later. For now she goes to the crank and turns it, pulling the metal chain attached to the hook tight and lifting him, slowly, up until he’s hanging with just the very tips of his toes touching the metal floor. It is cold in this room, but not too cold. Too warm and the blood doesn’t feel as hot, too cold and it congeals quickly and she can’t smell it as well. Plus, if it’s too cold, the men have difficulty getting hard and watching them get hard from fear is half the fun.

This one will be no different than the others. He is a good size, well defined, so much time and effort put into his muscled physique. He was definitely the type to think someone as petite as her could never get the upper hand with him. The possibility probably never even entered his mind. Well, *honey* it doesn’t take much force to knock a man out cold when one has an iron skillet and the element of surprise. And she is a hell of a lot stronger than she looks. A hundred and eighty pounds of Grade A man-meat on her hook now to show for her efforts too. She grins.

It didn’t take long with this one. A few dates, a couple nights of boring sex. He wanted missionary most of the time, which meant she had to keep the look of disgust off her face. It’s why she prefers it when they want to rail her from behind. The pounding of a cock inside her felt a lot more natural when she was mounted and it meant she didn’t have to fucking look *in love* when they fucked her. Or even like she was enjoying herself, which was really nice because she usually wasn’t. Who would *want* to get fucked by a pig?

But men, oh men, they were *so* easy. She dragged him into the autumn rain, played him ‘obscure’ music, showed him her ‘art.’ His own little manic pixie dream girl, come into his life to love him and moan for him in bed and make him feel like a *Real Man*. She volunteered to cook lunch that day, brained him while he ate, and dragged him down into her butchery. Now she just needed for him to wake up.

He slowly wakes up, and she watches with a big smile as his brain gathers itself up and looks around. It doesn’t take long for that series of expressions; first dazed, then confused. Then the little widening of his eyes with the realization. The glance up at the hook and the look at her table. Her glorious little table full of all her containers and sharp knives. She always put the cleaver out where they can see it best, so they have no doubt.

“Head hurt sweetie?” she asks.

He makes noises, but she gagged him. The pleading is fun, sometimes, but she’s got plans for later, so tonight is about *business.* And the hunt with this one didn’t take long, so why should the butchering?

“Figured it out?” she asks. He’s making a lot more noise now. He’s panicking. He’s swinging around on his hook, flailing about, trying to kick her, trying to get down. It makes her laugh; he looks ridiculous, like a demented bondage ballet dancer. But even though it’s funny, well, time’s a’wastin’.

She picks up a knife, small and sharp. Then next time he kicks at her… she makes it so he can’t use his thigh or below any more. The next leg follows. Two easy and deep cuts, done countless times before.

The fact that he can’t help but get hard is the best part. Better than the feeling of the knife sliding through his skin, better than the muffled screams. Much better than his flesh will taste, except the heart.

There is work to do before she gets to that though. He is crying and she moves up to her toes, licking up one cheek. Salty, just the lightest touch of fear. It was a good sign for how his blood will taste. She strips then, tossing her clothes aside. It’s too hard to get blood out and if she had to burn everything, she’d go through more dress than men. That would never do.

Her knife slides slowly through him, hard metal through hot flesh, the beautiful red pouring down as of yet untouched skin. She cuts in strips, easier to peel it away, to reveal the muscle underneath and leave him more bare to her than he’s ever been to anyone. She moans and shivers, seeing inch after inch revealed, the honesty of bare muscle that she wishes might someday be given by choice, but she will happily take for now by force. Her hands and breasts and mouth are covered with part of him, hot and sticky. She shivers in delight as she feels a small stream move down her stomach and then roll over her hairless venus mound and drip steadily to the floor from there.

He is long gone by the time she breaks his ribs and reaches in, tenderly and carefully cutting out the big red organ. She kisses it, savoring the taste of his still warm blood and the heat of a heart that had been racing just minutes ago. It’ll never taste better than it does right now, full of fear and pain.

Her teeth sink into the meat and rip.

Later, she is late. It takes a while to carve up the pieces and store them, then to shower, dress, and get pretty. So when she arrives at her date fifteen minutes behind schedule, she is secretly proud of herself for being as timely as she is.

She is wearing a little black dress, red heels. Her hair is bright auburn and curly, falling around her shoulders with magnificent volume. Her curves hit all the right measurements, all wrapped up tight in black, big butt, big breasts, small waist. And her eyes, so dark grey they seem black, look you over with longing as she bites her perfectly shaped lower lip.

“Oh you look good,” she says, delighted. “Always nice. It’s so great to meet you. I’m glad you match your pictures.” Her smile grows and she offers her hand. “We’ll have a great night, I think. I already know I could just eat you up.”