Clit Shots

*Written as a commission for: Anonymous.*

*Want your own fantasy written? 'Shoot' me a dm!*




Raven works alone. Always has. She doesn’t take contracts out of spite or justice, just payment and her pleasure. If someone skips bail, breaks a deal, or goes too far off the grid, she’s the one they call to drag them back. She’s not the fastest or the flashiest, but she’s the one who gets it done.

She positioned herself on the 15th floor of the towering obsidian skyscraper, her rifle's barrel protruding slightly from the darkened window. Across the urban canyon, the target apartment building glowed with the warm amber light of a waning day. She had been watching the prey for weeks, studying her routines, waiting for the perfect moment.

The target was a young woman, no more than 25, with a flowing river of chestnut curls and a figure that turned heads on the bustling city streets. Raven had seen her strutting around in her designer dresses and sky-high heels, always with a smug smirk on her perfectly painted lips. She was the kind of woman who reveled in the attention of men, who took sadistic pleasure in rejecting their advances with a flip of her hair and a scathing remark.

Raven could scarcely remember why the real whys and whats, just a man with deep enough pockets and a frail enough ego that hired her when he was rejected. Money and a clit to shoot, that's plenty enough for her after all.

Today, the slut wore a tight black pencil skirt that hugged her curves like a second skin and a silky white blouse, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the swell of her breasts. Raven could see the outline of her lacy bra, no doubt a matching set to the skimpy panties she wore underneath. The sniper felt a thrill of anticipation, her finger caressing the trigger guard.

The woman was in her apartment, pacing back and forth as she talked on the phone, gesturing wildly with her hands. Raven could see the way she kept tugging at the hem of her skirt, as if trying to keep it from riding up her thighs. But every time she turned around, the fabric crept back up, exposing more and more of her creamy skin.

Raven's breath caught in her throat as the woman spun on her heel and leaned forward, bracing herself against the window. Her skirt rode up completely, and Raven could see the lacy edge of her panties peeking out. She raised her rifle, took aim, and centered the crosshairs on the woman's crotch, right where the her clit would be.

The shot rang out, suppressed just enough to avoid too much attention, yet echoing through the city streets and startling the pigeons into flight. The woman let out a blood-curdling scream, her body convulsing violently against the window. Raven could see the blood blossoming on the fabric of the target's panties, spreading like a macabre flower, dripping down her thighs like plant vines.

She waited, watching as the woman staggered back from the window, her hands frantically clawing at her crotch. She could see the agony and terror in her eyes as she realized what had happened, the realization that she was going to die. The woman collapsed onto the floor, writhing in pain as her body betrayed her, her bladder releasing its contents in a final, humiliating act, the pain and shock of her ravaged pussy and clit taking away any sense of control.

Raven gave her a few moments to suffer, savoring the way she thrashed and squirmed, her hands still desperately trying to stem the flow of blood. Then, with a sense of grim satisfaction, she packed up her rifle and made her way down to the lobby.

Bribing the security guard was a simple matter of slipping him a crisp hundred dollar bill and whispering a few words in his ear. He paled at the mention of the woman's fate, but he was no fool. He knew better than to argue with a sniper.

The apartment was a scene of carnage, with the woman's blood splattered across the furniture and floor like a gruesome, dark painting. Raven stepped carefully through the mess, making her way to the still warm, lifeless corpse of her target. Disposable camera pulled out, picture taken as proof of the kill, and back to her bag it went.

There, on the floor, lay the blood-soaked panties, still on their owner. The fabric torn and tattered where the bullet had ripped through it. Raven removed them carefully, holding them by the elastic waistband as she examined the ruin of the woman's most intimate apparel. The crotch was completely destroyed, the lace shredded and the fabric stiff with dried blood and urine.

She brought them to her nose, inhaling deeply. The scent of copper and sex filled her lungs, and she felt a rush of power and arousal. This was her trophy, her memento of the kill. She would take these panties home and treasure them, along with those of her previous kills, sniffing them as she brought herself to climax again and again, reliving the moment of the shot and the woman's agony.

Raven stuffed the blood-soaked panties into a plastic bag and made her way out of the apartment, leaving the guards to clean up the mess. She knew they would blame it on a random act of violence, a stray bullet from a gang shooting gone wrong. No one would ever suspect the truth.

As she stepped out into the cool night air, Raven felt a sense of deep satisfaction. She had taken a life today, had snuffed out the smug, arrogant existence of a woman who had thought herself untouchable. She had shown her the true meaning of humiliation and pain, had made her suffer in the most intimate and degrading way possible. Her thighs rubbed together as she filled her head with thoughts of the afternoon.

But for now, she had her trophy, and the memory of a job well done. And that was enough. More than enough. It was everything.




That night, back in the privacy of her own apartment, Raven pulled out the bag containing the woman's blood-soaked panties. She could still smell the coppery scent of her victim's lifeblood, mingling with the faint traces of her perfume and the musk of her sex.

Raven held the ruined garment to her face, inhaling deeply as she recalled the way the woman had screamed and convulsed, her hands clawing desperately at her shattered cunt. She could almost hear the wet, obscene sounds of her victim's body betraying her, the gush of piss and the spurt of blood as the sniper's bullet had torn through her most sacred flesh.

Her fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her panties, slipping through the slick folds of her cunt. She was dripping wet, her juices coating her fingers as she plunged them in and out of her aching hole. She could feel her clit throbbing, swollen and sensitive as it strained against the soft skin of her palm as her slit was worked.

Raven brought the blood-soaked lace to her lips, dragging the tattered edge across her tongue. The taste of rust and salt exploded in her mouth, mingling with the flavor of her own saliva. She moaned softly as she sucked the fabric, her tongue lapping at the dried blood like a starving animal.

Raven's free hand fumbled with the button of her pants, popping it open and shoving them down her thighs. She needed to feel the cool air on her fevered skin, needed to be free of the confines of clothing. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and dragged them down, letting them pool around her ankles.

She could feel her orgasm building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in her core. She panted and moaned, her hips bucking up to meet the thrust of her fingers as she fucked herself with wild abandon. The wet, obscene sounds of her masturbation filled the room, the slick squelch of her juices and the slap of flesh on flesh echoing off the walls.

And as she came, Raven screamed. She screamed the woman's name, screamed the way her clit had burned and spasmed against the sniper's bullet, screamed the way her life had poured out of her in a hot, gushing flood. She screamed until her throat was raw and her lungs burned, until the last tremors of her climax had faded away.

In the aftermath, Raven lay panting on the bed, the woman's blood-soaked panties still clutched in her hand. She brought them to her face once more, inhaling the heady, sickening scent of her trophy. And as she drifted off to sleep, a small, satisfied smile played at the corners of her mouth.




Its another week, and another job. Raven had driven out to the rural outskirts of the city, leaving behind the towering skyscrapers and bustling streets for the rolling hills and open fields of the farming region. Raven's next prey was given to her. A woman who gambled away just enough to have her life be taken, now living far from city and debtors.

"She dies this week." was all she needed to hear. Sniper packed, gas tank filled, she was on her way.

Raven had arrived at her chosen vantage point as the first light of dawn began to paint the sky in hues of orange and pink. She had set up her rifle and scope, securing them to the tripod with practiced efficiency. The hill offered an unobstructed view of the target's house, a modest ranch-style dwelling with a wraparound porch and a red tin roof that glinted in the morning light.

As the sun crept higher in the sky, Raven saw the husband emerge from the house. He was a burly man, with calloused hands and a weathered face that spoke of a life spent working the land. She watched as he strode purposefully to his pickup truck, pausing only to grab a thermos from the porch railing. He climbed into the cab, the engine roaring to life as he pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the long, winding dirt road that led to the highway.

Raven waited patiently, her finger resting lightly on the trigger guard as she scanned the quiet house through her scope. The minutes ticked by, each one stretching into eternity as she maintained her vigilant watch. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the trees that surrounded the property and sending a chill down Raven's spine.

And then, there she was. The target, stepping out onto the porch as if drawn by the warmth of the sun on the wooden planks. She was a petite woman, with a slender build and a cascade of golden blonde hair that tumbled down her back in loose curls. She was dressed simple and modest, in a white cotton sundress that hugged her curves and fell to just above her knees. As the wind caught the fabric, it lifted the hem, revealing a flash of white panties that clung to her slender thighs like a second skin.

Raven felt a thrill of anticipation as she centered the crosshairs of her scope on the woman's crotch. She could see the way the white fabric stretched taut against her mound, the way the fabric dipped into the cleft of her ass as she moved. She could almost feel the softness of her skin, the heat of her flesh beneath the gossamer thin material.

With a deep breath, Raven flicked the safety off on her rifle. The click of the switch was barely audible, but it seemed to echo in the stillness of the morning air. She took another breath, steadying her hand and focusing her eye on the target.

And then, as the wind gusted again, lifting the woman's skirt to reveal the creamy expanse of her inner thighs and the delicate cotton that covered her most sensitive place, Raven took the shot.

The rifle cracked like thunder, the sound of the bullet's passage whipping past the woman's ear and shattering the silence of the morning. The slug tore through the flimsy fabric of her panties like a hot knife through butter, the fabric fluttering as the projectile passed through it and buried itself deep in the tender clit that it hid.

The woman let out a scream, a sound of pure agony and terror that pierced the air like a knife. She staggered back, her hands flying to her crotch as she crumpled to the porch floor, writhing in a puddle of her own blood and urine. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her tongue lolling out of her mouth as she choked on her own pain.

Raven watched, a cruel smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she drank in every moment of the woman's suffering. The blood crept through her panties in widening circles, turning the fabric heavy and dark. She could see the way the woman's body jerked and spasmed, her muscles seizing and relaxing as the life drained out of her in a hot, gushing flood.

It was a beautiful sight, a thing of exquisite beauty and cruelty that set Raven's heart racing and her blood singing in her veins. She could feel the adrenaline pumping through her body, the rush of power and exhilaration that came with the thrill of the kill.

But she didn't linger long. With a final, contemptuous glance at the woman's twitching body, Raven began to disassemble her rifle, tucking it away in its case with the same practiced efficiency she had used to assemble it. She knew that the husband would be returning soon, and she had no desire to linger and risk being seen.

She slung the case on to her back and dashed to the dying corpse that was her target. Drawing out a pair of scissors, she lifted the woman's skirt only to notice she wasn't quite dead. Yet, anyway. The lady squirmed in place, noises of fear as Raven snipped the elastic band of her panties and took out a hand gun in one fluid motion. The road listened to the sounds of her final breaths as Raven uncaringly fired another shot at her already ruined clit, finally silencing her forever.

As she got into her car, panties thrown into their own plastic bag, Raven couldn't help but feel a sense of deep satisfaction. She had taken another life today, had snuffed out the existence of a woman who had thought herself safe and secure in her rural sanctuary. She had shown her the true meaning of vulnerability, the true meaning of helplessness in the face of a cold, merciless fate.

And as she drove away, leaving the woman's body to be discovered by her unsuspecting husband, Raven knew that she would do it again. And again. And again. As long as there were women to kill and people to pay, her rifle would never be silent and her collection would be ever growing.