by Gavin Graham
It takes over me as it always does, when it comes this way, the call to kill.
Here I am.
Whimpering.
Yelping.
My discharge is immense.
My body is shivering.
My fists clenched to straining ivory knuckles.
The sparks of electricity spread across my body, muscle and limb, bringing me to a new life.
I’m here.
Peekaboo!
The dominator for you.
Violator.
Instigator.
Terror-maker.
I’m your worst nightmare, kitten, I was born to destroy.
I lay here and relish the visionary profile of her execution as it plays vividly in my head. I still growl lowly, panting softly, like a dog. My posture instinctively tenses and grinds to the splintering of her bones.
I’m lashed in my own fluids.
I convulse.
Shuddering.
I tremble to a murderous instinct and reflex. Such warmth has this familiar seed of devilment.
Barbarous evil.
Darkness.
Extreme malevolence.
Such violent dreams.
Death dreams.
My inner conflicts coming to the surface.
Urges.
Needs.
Desires.
Secrets.
This was more than a dream; it is the recurrence of confirmation.
I will kill again, soon, yes.
Yet again, I have found myself a perfect victim, willing to be imprisoned and tortured for her own deviant thrills.
The soundproof cell will soon be ready for her.
I shall make this murder truly horrendous.
Only He, Lucifer, the angel of darkness, watches as I do my work and through his watchful eye you too may lurk in my shadow as I seek glorious stimulations in grotesquely inhuman acts.
Indescribable.
Death in sex.
Sublime.
Chapter 29
Love that may know evil & perish in its bleak shadow
White noise.
Gushing water.
The chug, pull and friction of pipes.
Someone is behind the wall – the fitting wife – soaping the folds of her milky flesh in a small room filled with steam. She is the loyal and understanding one. Her soul is clean. Her moralistic authenticity is untainted and true. She knows. She won’t tell a soul. She is part of the veil of my manipulations and crimes. She is one component in my shield of normality. Soon she will ask: “What excited you so, dear?” I shan’t confess. I respond with lies. I tell her that only she can excite me that way as the true architect of my intimate and uncontrollable shudders, those that awaken me with frightful vigour, pulling me up with newfound strength and deadly virility and to force upon me the purposeful rigidity of an unspoken kink.
Her.
Only her.
Lies.
She shan’t impress that she knows deep down, that it is marked females of whom I dream, dead women, vulgar imaginings, scores of corpses, that only the excitement of death truly sets me ablaze. She pretends to know not. In return, I shall tell her not, not now and not ever.
She judges me not as she sees me in quivering and delirious states. “I expect you’ll be working at home tonight? Downstairs with one of your female clients?”
What does she really think is going on down there?
Mere BDSM roleplay with fetishists that I pick-up in clubs?
Does she assume that the women are prostitutes I have solicited on-line or picked-up on the streets?
Does she really know that I am a cold-blooded serial murderer?
“Yes,” I respond, my adamant croak hushed and dry. She’s learned to accept me. She senses something wicked yet feels protective and protected as the true darkness is not channelled in her direction. She keeps me as one might keep a snake, deadly, yet loyal to its keeper. I’m no longer staring with awe at my spent stoker but piercing her with the fluid-green glare of my serpent-like, glassy jewels. “There will be a female patient visiting the clinic, tonight, and she may be enrolled in a programme of therapeutic counselling. It will be a standard consultation, but, if I feel that my unorthodox methods can help her then I may keep her in the basement for observation,” I grin in a way that reinstates our mutual understanding.
“Very well,” she says, smiling, that docile and accepting way that she smiles. She ties a towel around her head as warm droplets absorb into the soft skin of her hour-glass, naked body, silky and milky, voluptuous, standing that cute way with her toes turned inwards. “I’ll get breakfast ready for the boys, they’re up already, shall I?” she asks, playing her part of ignorant yet murderous complicity to masterful perfection, like an actress in a bleak yet powerful movie.
“Sure,” I respond and let my head fall back onto the sweat-soaked pillow, staring up to the ceiling, feeling suddenly cold like the blue husk of a frozen corpse.
“Shall I prepare a dinner for the girl? You know, before your session starts?” she hides the pain well.
She’s a good person, helps me keep the act in balance, keep it all clean on the outside. I need to remember that and keep her on-side. I need to keep all the right pieces in their correct places so that the Death Candy shows can undoubtedly last longer. I remind myself to play my part too. “Yes, sweetheart, we can have drinks in the kitchen whilst you cook. My clients always deserve a last meal before…well…before the treatment starts.”
“A last meal? You always make it sound like they will die down there…”
I smirk, knowingly. “We should have drinks before I go to pick her up.”
She smiles. “I like it when we have drinks together. I’ll make Gibson Martinis with those plump onions from the supermarket that you like so much,” her face lights-up once again with blissful, smiling ignorance.
She pulls on her bathrobe.
Obedient wife leaves room.
For all my sins, I love her, in my own manipulative way. I prop myself on solid elbows. The post-death-dream jaw-lock is still solid as a vice. A see my deranged reflection in the mirror at her make-up desk, an untold narrative of unspeakable evil beams from my depraved emeralds, I feel deliciously sick.
I smile.
My eyes lock down to my drained member, the rigid hardness drawn, but, I know the real thing is coming soon. Daydreams and fantasies are suddenly vamped, swirling, pumped with macabre promise, feelings of elation rip through me like the knife that slits open a soft stomach. I’m left like nothing more than a drugged junkie, needle in the arm, heroin surging in my blood. I’ll soon get hard again when the real sadism begins, that sizzling fix, I’ll just have to wait.
Perverse kicks.
Fleshy bate.
The ultimate fruits of my burning hate.
Chapter 30
Collecting a slave
I set the parking brake and leave the BMW’s engine running over.
She squints her eyes as she turns to the headlights and falls under my gaze.
She’s in the spot that was agreed on. I never saw her face at the club, but, I know she is the one as I have seen her in bondage performances at The X Club. It is the one whom I showed the note too – I WILL KILL YOU – and she had responded with eyes that ran deep with a willingness to submit and a burning desire for malevolent enslavement.
I showed her an email address and she memorised it.
She knew I was the thing she was looking for, the man that she needed in her life, to give her the ‘death kink’ sessions that she so desperately craved.
She has no idea who or what I really am – a serial killer – but secrecy and violence is all part of our game and we both know how to play by the rules.
We corresponded swiftly and fruitfully, her agreeing to leave her life behind for me, her home and job, all for me, and to come and be enslaved in my basement for her last days of sodomy. When I told her that I was married and had a family and that I would keep her as m
y secret wife, for a BDSM life, it thrilled her to her very bones.
I receive her physical and esoteric aura, for men of my ilk are perceptive in that way, it is a talent. There is an exquisite pre-kill phenomenon, it brings a tingle to my fingertips, in this most beautiful of moments as she stands there dressed seductively in such a modern way and clutching a small leather bag of things that she won’t need for she’ll soon be dead.
She smiles and stares at me the way a deer might stare at a hunter.
My mental crosshairs are trained on her head and she’s ripe for the kill.
Sometimes it amazes me just how easy this entire charade of murder actually is.
She’s admiring the vehicle and its dark windows as the promise of wealth and a luxurious home adds to the fantasy and the kink of her darkest desires.
She will know no frills, only my thrills, and the deadly squalor of Hell.
She’s walking into the path of The Devil.
My inner satanic agent smiles as the line of my mouth breaks to the side.
My eyes gleam darkly like I’m in a euphoric drug-like state and on the verge of ejaculating in some morbidly premature and demonic fashion.
I glare at her like a man who is truly possessed by evil forces and I think of the ways that I can make her moan, groan and bleed; the cycle from sexual pleasure at one end of the spectrum to terror, horror and extreme pain will be a journey to behold.
I am sure that she is the one and that I have chosen wisely with this perfect victim; such an exquisite corpse she will make.
Her blood will spill.
Yes.
How can you be so sure?
(I here you ask)
Her manifestation in the form of a dream was the final confirmation, as has occurred at present, as I saw her in my lucid acts of violence this very morning as my supporting wife quizzed me with ignorant obedience and rhetorical predictability. She is the woman that I dreamt of as I awoke in a gushing frenzy, her head I had partially decapitated, her flesh had aroused me as the blood surged slick and thick and coated her curves and edges.
It was dripping to the concrete floor of my Death Candy basement.
It dripped from the nubs of her bust.
It dripped from the perfect curvature of my shiny, steel blade.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
She’s wearing those tight-fitting jeans, the soft ones that I like, the ones I know that her dead twin sister in the dream had also worn. They are the same curves that I saw in the club, in the darkness, of a small ‘punishment room’. She was clad in leather and had submissive, death-ready eyes; this is how I know she is the one.
The call required in the killer’s craft is instinctively received only through a total absence of morality, fear and emotion.
The Void.
It runs deep.
It cannot always be intrinsically explained via narrative; not so perfectly, anyway, but I try to do so.
Her hair has a fiery red sheen that is erotic but I always get drawn back down to her legs. The jeans have a softness, a baby-blue shine and a stretch that moulds perfectly to the shape of her curved and fit-looking pins, luscious calves and thighs so provocatively pronounced. The cleft at her groin looks deep and inviting as I visualise with graphic clarity the spread of those perfect pink folds and the pungent smell of her womanly resin.
The garment fits her long legs perfectly and they stop short of the ankles where on the left side there is a sparkling anklet with an inverted crucifix in gold.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
The jewels catch my eye and draw me to think again of her flowering, blossoming burn as I see too the way she stands tall in heels that are ivory in colour and have a gloss that partners so well with the jean-leggings and a blouse that reveals a womanly sort of perfection, vigour and spunk. Her top is transparent and loose, a satin arrangement with a deep cut that sinks down to her bosom, showing a full, black cup of a bra that makes my manhood unfurl to hardness; it inflames inside me the drive and desire to cut her open from her throat to her pubis.
She’s raising her eyebrows expectantly and I notice a glimmer of fear.
I kill the lights.
The engine rumbles.
I emerge now in a triumphant act of adult normality to evoke the aura of dominance that she has amazingly bought into. “Slave?” I address her with a sly smile.
“Master?” she responds excitedly and it seems like we’ve known each other for some time.
I smile and she smiles. “Take your bag and put it in the back. C’mon. Get in the car and let’s get you to your new home,” I tell her what to do in a manner that is both friendly and threating and I can see that it turns her on; this is what sexy looks like to her.
She obeys.
Like a good slave?
No.
Like a good victim.
(That is the last you’ll hear from me for a while, so, now you can sit back and watch like a normal reader and be a mere shadow to my crimes…)
Chapter 31
The sins of Lara
Colin was no stranger to ‘home-visits’ as they liked to call it.
The Boss wanted dirty little secrets and so that is what he’d look for. He just hoped that it wouldn’t backfire in his face. “Had you ever expected your fiancée, Lara, of having an affair?” he asked. Lara was the girl who’d been ripped open upon The Spanish Donkey.
“No,” the man who was a senior partner in a major law firm declared. His eyes were drawn and grey, red around the edges, bags that were dark and fuelled by tears, intoxication and sleep deprivation. He looked sick, like a man who was dying, of a broken heart. When a man is so lost, so bereaved like that, it shows in the eyes the most. “Well, not really…” he added, with reluctance, and with unmistakable intelligence. His baggy pyjamas had lost all shape as it appeared that he hadn’t been out of them since getting news of his dead wife. His hair was a mess, days old stubble, and he stank of booze and the unwholesome bodily aromas of trauma, defeat and uncleanliness.
“Not really?” Colin asked, seeing that perhaps the man finally realised that an opportunity to talk might be a saving mechanism as much as a coping mechanism, a chance.
“Last year, I saw a change in her, she went somewhat secretive but hid it well, you know?”
“Not really, Sir, you’ll have to elaborate for me.”
“Women are good at keeping secrets, you know that Detective, surely?”
Colin nodded, sympathetically, man-to-man. He wanted to humour the poor guy more than anything else.
“Would you like a drink, Detective?”
“Eh, no, thanks…”
“You mind if I have one?”
It was ten o’clock in the morning. “No, not at all, go ahead…” Colin responded, if anything with a bit of booze in him he might open up a bit more, or, so he saw it.
The grieving husband stood like a frail man who might grab for a walking stick or one of those frames that the elderly used. He’d developed a hunch around the shoulders and walked more slowly and cautiously, in such a short period of time he’d been brought to this, destroyed. He came from the kitchen with a coffee mug filled with ice and poured it full with Smirnoff vodka before returning to the couch to sit with the red-haired Detective.
Colin seemed innocent, wet behind the ears, and that was part of his charm. People didn’t feel threatened in the same way as they might do with Mac McGreavy of Jimmy ‘The Swede’ McGhee; those men could come across more as gangsters than coppers.
The hunched man sipped his vodka and immediately seemed more at ease as he started to focus on some point in the past. “Every now and again she’d be texting messages or whatnot on her phone, her body language would change, I could tell. Grown men can tell these things,” he spoke to Colin as though he was just a wee boy who probably wouldn’t understand. “She started to go out, to meet some friends, you know, but I just knew that it was something else.”
&
nbsp; “So, you did suspect that she was having an affair?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I did what any man would have done – I followed her…”
“And?”
“I borrowed a mate’s car and sat at the end of the road as she took off one night, after texting this mystery person, I followed her to the Blackhill Estate…”
“Wait a minute, the Blackhill Estate? But that’s…”
“It’s a fucking shithole, yeah, I know…that was my reaction to. What the fuck would my wife be going to the Blackhill Estate for?” It was a scheme notorious for drugs, prostitution and a merciless Young Team known as The Blackhill Crew known for violent attacks against outsiders with razors, baseball bats and firearms. Even the police wouldn’t go there without back-up.
“I parked the car and watched as she walked into one of the blocks of flats. There was an Old Firm game on, so the gangs were all elsewhere, causing mayhem and destruction in the town. Rangers and Celtic. Protestants and Catholics beating the absolute shite out of each other over a stupid game of football. I guess I was lucky that day because the place was quiet. I got out of the car and followed her. The door to the building was ajar, falling off at the hinges actually, so I slipped in and saw some junkies laying in the hallway, a hooker approached me and asked if I wanted a blowjob for a tenner. I gave her a twenty quid note and asked where the lady who just entered with the red skirt on and the black leather jacket had gone.”
Colin was listening intently like a kid absorbing one of his grandad’s old war stories.
“The whore gladly took the cash and pointed to No. 7, that was the last door on the left, looked rough as fuck. I walked down and listened to all sorts of noises coming from inside the flats. Glasses smashing. People screaming and swearing. People having sex. Techno music. All sorts. It was a bloody dump, Detective, I felt like I was walking through Hell and couldn’t understand what my wife was doing there.”
“So, you went to door No. 7, and what?”
He took a deep breath and exhaled in a slow whistle with wide eyes, like the memory of what happened next was like the reawakening of an emotional burden, a thing that had been buried with the intention of staying buried.”