Slash her tires

You head over to the studio parking lot. You might not have the greatest detective skills, but an unfamiliar red convertible with the register plate "CRS-713" stands out prominently.

A series of satisfying *Psssst*'s follow as your razor-sharp claws dig into the thick rubber like industrial blades. Those toned arms of yours aren't just for show; all four tires are rend into ribbons within seconds. Not quite satisfied with your handiwork, you decide to crawl underneath the chassis and dig your claws into the suspension. Even you aren't strong enough to tear through solid iron, but manage to slice a few critical furrows here and there.

Deciding to call it quits before breaking a nail, you jimmy yourself out from underneath the car and seath your claws.

Sophie: "Hah. That'll show her. Although now that I consider, this might just not... cut it."

Nonchalantly walking away from the crime scene, you begin tapping away at your phone and look for Christie's home address.

A few hours later you find yourself perched inside of a bush with a clear view of her uptown bungalow. Damn, she's got a nicer house than you as well. A pool with a built-in tropical gazebo. And you bet there's like three kitchen islands stowed away inside of there too.

And there's your target: her 'hubby', Rami Addario. A succesful football player of Lebanese descent. A nice guy, you've heard, but not without scandalous rumors of infidelity. Rumors, which you will now bring to reality.

You await patiently in predatory focus until you see Rami leaving the premises. On foot, as you had hoped for. Following him is easy enough. After a ten minute covert pursuit on foot, he enters a gym.

Sophie: "Perfect."

You've actually been here a few times before. Being a fitness model, and a particularly determined one at that, you spend countless hours pumping away, getting stronger, stretchier and more toned. Seeing you here wouldn't arouse suspicion for anyone, not even in this stripperrific outfit you cooked up from the confines of your wardrobe.

Rami's doing leg presses. You saunter over to a nearby bench to stretch. Just far enough not to make it obvious, but just close enough that he must be able to see you flaunt your firm, round ass. After getting an overabundant amount of stretching done, you really get your body out there by picking out a machine facing him and doing pec flies, making feigned laborious grunts and letting your boobs get squashed with every rep.

Before you can even act out your actual plan and try to flirt with him, Rami comes over to talk to you.

Rami: "Hi there."

You smile sweetly, acting surprised. Really though, you are surprised that this worked so well. Now there's no way he could suspect that you planned all this.

Sophie: "Hi. Do you go here often?"

Rami: "Sometimes, sometimes..."

Sophie: "Ooh, you look so big and strong. Can you show me the ropes? I'm afraid I'm doing these out of form and I'll sprain something."

You articulate this request with a wink.

Rami: "No your form is qu- uh, yes, I think you could do with some personal training. Sit at my lap, if you will."

He's now but a small, fragile ribbon twiddled around your fingers. The next half an hour or so you spend constantly giving out positive signals. At forty five minutes the two of you are already on your way to a hotel at the adjacent block.

Clothes start going off before you're even through the door of your room. Love has no place here - this is passion. A passion for ****.

Then again, saying that this 'small, fragile ribbon' wasn't the buffest guy you've had knocking at your door in six months would do him injustice. And nowhere is this more apparent than halfway up the hotel room wall, being relentlessly ground against it by your rival's husband.

Rest of your night is pretty wild. You both seem to host an inexhaustible libido, and new sessions start from right where the previous ones left off. A paradise is created with every stroke of your loins and buck of your hips.

Morning rears its head, as the Sun peeks their eyes through the hotel room blinds as if fearfully inquiring: 'Is it over?'. The sheets are rife with large uncongealed puddles of cum. Clothes are littered everywhere - your bra hung from the ceiling fan, no less. Now begins the third anf final part of your plan.

Right after waking up, you get up from under the warm spooning position which Rami's bulging torso offered, and fetch your phone. A series of incriminating photos appear silently on your phone screen, as you take a tour of the thrashed room. Rami's morning wood stretching out your own, tight strings is the real money shot.

Sophie: "Perrrrrrrfect..."

You gather your things in your gym bag, also making sure to shred Rami's boxers into useless threads before you go. If you're lucky he doesn't realize he's wearing yours, and Christie spots them.

The photos which you captured are copied and sent anonymously to every third-rate gossip magazine in the city. The next morning, a lovely spliced-together image of the Daddario's adorns the covers of every celebrity magazine on the West Coast.

Sophie: "Hehheh. She should thank me. After all, when else is a girl like her going to have her face plastered everywhere?"

ENDING 16 -Matrimonycide-