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DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction that contains ADULTS-ONLY content, some of it potentially offensive. Such content includes (but is not limited to) verbal abuse, snuff, and necrophilia. If any of these things bothers or displeases you, then please CLOSE THIS TAB IMMEDIATELY. Do NOT come to the submission page to complain - you will be ignored. In other words, I will not respond if you continue to read any further: it's your own responsibility if you disregard this disclaimer and do so anyway.

For those of you that are ok with the NSFL content, you guys are cool, as well as the reason I'm sharing this. Please proceed with the reading, and I hope you enjoy the story! ;)

She woke up in a dark cellar, brain abuzz with thoughts and questions.

Where was she? How'd she get here? Who brought her here - and why?

She looked around for an answer, but there wasn't any. She called out for someone, anyone, and that's when she started noticing things: first of all there was a gag in her beak. But also her arms hung above her head, from ropes that dug ever-deeper into her bound wrists. She was also standing on a rough, tiny, misshapen, and rickety piece of furniture. And there was a rope around her throat.

That's when she realized.

For years, Opal Serengo had worked as a journalist at The White Fox: a small, but respectable, urban newspaper. Though her co-workers had never been exactly fond of her, her personality, her attitude, or the kinds of stories that frequently populated the office gossip about her, she had always managed to stay in her superiors' good graces thanks to her ability to sniff out and report on the darkest stories in town: the ones that bigger newspapers would unerringly sleep on for months. See, while her co-workers were busy exchanging salacious tales about her methods and commenting on her sense of individuality, she was more interested in keeping her spot in the roster secure and her paycheck on time. While her co-workers were sniffing out celebrity scandals, she was spending time in shady neighborhoods, notepad in hand. While larger newspapers were investing resources in this month's sports roster and schedule, she was visiting sketchy night time clubs and back alleys, ready for a scoop.

She had thus been dubbed, quite simply, The Vulture. Wherever she roamed, death was sure to follow, or rapes, or some other form of violence. Her sense was just uncanny enough that she could find scenes almost before they happened. Some said she was often involved.

As such, she was shunned wherever she went - and yet, time and time again, without fail, she found something nasty out before anyone else did, sometimes even before the Police, which naturally contributed to The White Fox's reputation when it came to crime coverage. It was her philosophy that no matter what time of the day, what day of the week, what month of the year, someone somewhere was up to no good - and she had the track record of exclusives to support that claim.

As such, she had never really thought twice before taking an unidentified number's call, one not unlike many others she had taken over the years, and gone into yet another secluded underlife bar on the wrong side of town on the tail of a possible lead.

It had never occurred to her that she'd gone sniffing after her own murder.

The meeting had gone the same as many others before it: a drink ordered; a conversation held in a private booth, notepad in hand. Rumors claiming there was a guy in Chiroptera St. that had caught by his roommate less than a week ago as he masturbated to a video uploaded on CurrentSpill. As per the website's notoriously explicit real-life video footage, this video showed someone being killed and raped in exactly that order, but there was nothing unusual about that either: there were a lot of fucked-up folks out there. Thus, she hadn't batted an eye as she wrote the information down, thanked her new contact, got up - and stumbled against the table.

That was the last she'd remembered.

A soft creak came up behind her, bringing her back to the present, and a stripe of light on the floor drew her silhouette on it. A shudder ran down her spine as she realized she was entirely naked.

A gasp of indignation went up her throat and died at the gag. She squirmed now, trying to release her hands to undo that gag and put some clothes on, and with the ricketing of the stool she was standing on, she didn't hear the soft, calm steps getting closer. She did hear the voice, however - "Hello, little toy" - and almost jumped off her little stool when she did.

It was her source's voice greeting her. A cold chill went down her spine and her heart shot straight up, sitting rather uncomfortably against her throat.

A hand suddenly stroked up her right side, making her squirm once again, and a chuckle met her ears. "Yeah, that's right. That's what I want from you. Squirm for me, doll." As he spoke, the other hand reached up to release her arms - and before she could do anything, the stool got kicked from beneath her.

Suddenly, any thought she might have had about pulling out her gag - or strangling this fucker, or doing anything else at all - went straight to loosening the noose now squeezing out her neck instead. But she didn't get even that much, either, as strong hands grasped one of her hands, then the other, and pulled them firmly behind her back - tying them back up with alarming speed and efficiency.

Then the stool was underneath her again, and she gratefully stepped on it, taking frantic gasps of air and coughing as he took off her gag. She hadn't even noticed her vision had grown blurry, and why were her cheeks wet?

She again didn't get time to think about it, dizzy and light-headed as she was, before a hand came up to cup her left breast and the other covered up her beak, muffling her protests and holding her firmly in place so she wouldn't try to squirm away.

"You know, for years now I've been a fan of your columns," the voice started up again, pinching her nipple, and she shuddered in a way not unlike the one she'd have if she fell in a pile of sewage sludge. "And I've been wondering, did you start naming it The Vulture after people started calling you that, or did they start calling you that because of it? No, no, don't try to answer now; you can't talk." She could just imagine the grin forming behind her and she snorted in contempt, doing her best to jerk her nipple free of his grasp. He didn't seem to mind.

"In all seriousness though," he continued, releasing her breast and circling around to stand directly in front of her, while still holding her beak closed - and as she blinked the tears away she could see that the wolf's expression was no longer the downtrodden-but-amiable face she'd met at the booth. Instead, it was cold, hard, and rugged. "You've been a pain in the ass for me and my buddies for a while now, so we figured we'd take care of you for good. For kicks, we decided that whoever caught you would get to have their way with you. Oh, yes, I assure you, we really did," a dark smirk spread across his features upon feeling her tense up. "As you can see, you're in my power, so that means the reward is mine by rights. And I am going to enjoy Every Single Part of Yours," he finished with a soft growl, punctuating the last five words with four alternating slaps to her breasts, prompting more squirming. He released her beak...

...and then kicked the rickety stool.

All at once, the panic flared back as the noose bit into her throat again, and once again severed her breath and blood flow. Every fiber in her body screamed for her to get it off, get it off, get it off. She struggled in her bindings, kicked her legs, to no avail. In the back of her mind, she heard the wolf's voice, not too far away, but too far now for her legs, taunting her: "That's it, slut, swing for me. I'm looking forward to fucking your cold corpse."

She was going to die. She was going to die! Like this! In a dark, cramped cellar, to a creep, unable to do anything about it! She wasn't supposed to be the victim! She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to beg. But the noose had no mercy for her, even as the tears came back and her body jerked in spasms, and her bladder emptied itself, and her eyes closed and the darkness took her. Her spasms slowly died down, her head drooped forward, and she swung from her neck, limp and lifeless.

The wolf waited a few more minutes, smirk in his face, before slapping one of her breasts and stepping out of the room.

He only needed a couple more minutes to cut her down and take her to the bedroom, though he'd had to wash her to get rid of the piss beforehand. He didn't want the stuff on his beddings. But once all that was done, he tossed the vulture's corpse on the bed, openly admiring her sprawled body.

He did so with his eyes, his hands, his tongue, his teeth. With no objections or complaints from the dead sack of feathers, he had no qualms with slapping her breasts some more, pinching her nipples, shoving his fingers so far down her throat her jaws popped, and scratching along her pussy. He really had been looking forward to this, to just being able to have his way with her.

He'd stripped down for this purpose, and his dick was already hard and ready. He'd waited long enough; now he could claim his reward.

Unceremoniously, he aligned himself with her pussy and pushed forward, shuddering at the resistance. "Well well, slut - your pussy is still nice and tight," he growled, pulling back and pushing forward once again. He didn't need a lot of lube, since he was leaking more than enough pre that after a couple minutes of this, he managed to get his entire length inside her, shuddering. He loved the extra friction, reminding him that she wasn't there anymore, and the view, seeing her still sprawled and non-objecting, only made him shudder once more. "Dead bitches are the best."

He had his way with Opal for quite a bit over an hour, slapping her breasts and fisting her beak as he debauched her unfeeling body. Sometimes he wrapped his hands around the mark the noose had left around her throat as if trying to strangle her himself, and eventually his own body convulsed with ecstasy as he filled her up with his sperm. Satisfied, he pulled out, dressed himself back up, and dragged her back downstairs to the cellar.

In the dark, Opal hadn't been able to see much. Now the light was on, and in the glare of a fluorescent lamp all sorts of carefully-cleaned pieces of machinery shone with malice from amidst the more mundane cellar wares.

He threw her body on top of a low wooden table, head just jutting out, and picked up a hacksaw. A minute later, he was throwing said head into a basket. The rest of her body was similarly hacked into smaller parts: guts fed to pigs, limbs skinned and sold in the black market for unsavory predators to consume. Her breasts and pussy he kept, treated, and stored away; the torso he hammered into a pile of shattered bones and gore before running it through a meat grinder for dinner; and the head...he had plans for the head.

As for the outside world, it took weeks for anyone to notice Opal's disappearance. It wasn't surprising considering she hadn't made herself easy to miss at the office, and even though her missing her paycheck was very unlike her and a clear sign something was wrong, her co-workers were in fact rather glad to notice she wasn't there whenever they thought enough about her to notice. The shoe only really dropped when an anonymous package was delivered to the front desk one monday, and the poor secretary, checking the package to make sure it was safe to forward, found a second box within it containing a decomposing, formerly-orange, vulture's head.

She'd needed a week off after that, a change of post and career, and is still receiving therapy today.

As for the rest of the newspaper staff, a new journalist was eventually hired: a downtrodden wolf with a better enough sense to not follow leads on his own, especially if they were in shady bars and clubs. Surely, it decreased The White Fox's reputation somewhat, seeing how the new stories were published at around the same time if not a little bit later than the larger publications ran them - but that was okay. This new, friendlier journalist was of the mindset that a reliable paycheck is only worth it if you can be alive to claim it.