Her Thighs Called to Me

I'm a really good person. No matter what you hear or read about me, at least know that. I was a Girl Scout. I was a good, upstanding citizen, damnit. I have always been a really good person. Occasionally, I'd fanatsize about running the person who drives five miles under the speed limit off the road. We've all been there, though. So when I started my new job, I was expecting a normal, good, upstanding experience. My boss was a woman, but I had no problem with that. I love a lady in power. My credentials were good, so I was pretty high up in the company right away. On my first day, I was asked to go speak with my boss. That's nothing unusual, happens all the time. I walked into her office and immediatly any goodness in me was left outside her door. She wasn't young, or even pretty, but she still wore skirts. She stood to greet me, and I wanted her more than I've ever wanted any 20-something college girl. I stared at her legs, varicose veins and age spots crawling up her calves. Her knees bent inwards, making her look wobbly. But her thighs...her thighs called to me. They were dented with cellulite and covered in moles. The most exquiste show of hideousness I have ever seen. I wanted to saw her legs off and hump them until I had withered to nothing. Everything else about her was ordinary. Her aura of power didn't turn me on, and it didn't turn me off. We had a quick chat about my job, and our weekend plans. I said nothing, but in reality, I had big, BIG plans. That night, after locking my door (there are lots of freaks out there, you can never be too safe), I got started on my plan to murder my boss and eat her Achille's tendon. It's simple, really. I walk in and kill her. She lives alone, and is doing nothing this weekend. So, I did just that. I'm no psychopath, and I didn't enjoy killing her. There was simply no other way. I cut her calves up into small pieces and made a nice stir-fry. It was delicious and very filling. Then I wrapped her thighs in saran wrap and took them home in a paper grocery bag. I know what you're thinking, but I am NOT a bad person. Seriously, you should just see the way her blood pooled on the surface of her skin. It looked like she was blushing, but in her thighs. And don't worry, I used a payphone to call the police about a gruesome murder at her apartment. But back to her thighs; I took them home with me and put them in my freezer. I have one of those big freezers you have to open from the top. After her beautiful, razor-burnt thighs had been frozen for a while, I took them out. I spent my Saturday night humping them and rubbing them on myself for a good hour, then wrapped them up and placed them next to my old boss's thighs. I suppose I'll have to find a new job. The same thing happened when I lived in Miami, and before that in Detroit. Maybe this time I'll go to California. Can you imagine the sunspots on some middle-aged CEO's thighs? I'm hard just thinking about it.