by Gavin Graham
“Just take your time, it’s OK, we have time…”
“Aye,” he said and looked down at the ice cubes melting in his mug of vodka. He lifted it to his lips as though it weighed a tonne, a pathetic shadow of his former self, and drank three tight consecutive gulps of the cold spirit as though it was a medicine he was dependent on; it seemed as though it was too.
“Had she gotten into drugs? Was that it? Was it a dealer’s flat?”
“No, she wasn’t into drugs, she wasn’t that stupid…”
“So, what then?”
“I stood at the door and listened to what she was doing in there, it was horrible, Detective. You really can’t imagine how horrible it was…” his dishevelled figure became twisted as he pinched at his lips and fought back tears. “I’m sorry, Detective, I’m sorry…” he blurted out before putting the mug of vodka down upon the coffee table and exploding into a staggered outburst of emotional weeping.
Colin looked both frustrated and sympathetic as he frowned and blinked his eyes with patience and hard nerves. “It’s OK, we have time, just take as much time as you need…”
He was desperate to know what was happening behind that door.
Chapter 32
The death car
The luxurious saloon vehicle smelled strongly of sandalwood and amber. “What’s your real name?” asked the murderer.
“Casandra,” she replied.
“Casandra,” he recited her name in a tone that was sonorous. He had a way about him that was gentle but commanding. He took her limp hand, curled his fingers around hers, lifting it to his dry lips as an old gentleman might do as a formal sign of respect to a lady. He closed his eyes indulgently.
She felt his warm breath on her flesh and it made her spine run cold.
He refrained from a direct kiss yet brushed his lips against her soft skin. He inhaled her scent and exhaled a deep craving lust.
He kissed her hand gently yet with power and dominance.
Being in his presence, touched by him, made her uncomfortable in a way that was indescribably sensual.
He opened his eyes to look at her as she sat there, scanning up and down her profile, caressing her shapely legs and the private contours of her seedy enclosure. The glint of his perverted eye was already exploring the lines of her chest with a lucid tongue, tasting and consuming her naked breast.
She felt deliciously violated and this was how she craved to feel when in the presence of a dominant man.
He wasn’t like any ordinary man.
There was so much more to it, this look that he had, this searching gaze, much more than just physical and sexual, like he was looking into her mind and seeing her soul, violating the utmost bareness of her being.
He saw all of her.
Fears.
Weaknesses.
Desires.
Perversions.
Kinks.
Her primitive need to be tortured, not just in a sexual way, but, in a violent and deadly way was at its peak level.
Chapter 33
A real-life house of horrors
The house was beautiful and situated in a perfectly normal suburb.
He opened the door and welcomed her into his abode where she would be kept and killed.
She saw pictures of his wife and children.
Aromas of food travelled from the kitchen.
It was all somewhat surreal. He was younger too than she’d anticipated, yet, he had maturity, wisdom and a sinister darkness to him that was fearsome and not to be underestimated. He was tall, wore a perfect black suit, with slip-on shoes that were finely polished. He stood in the hallway with his shoulders back in a manner that was almost arrogant, his frown wrinkling his forehead, drawing her attention to the slicked back hair that was prematurely grey; such an alluring oddity of a man she found him to be. “Come in,” he invited her to the lounge area which was unoccupied. “Welcome to your new home,” he said, with intimate assurance, taking her coat and running his fingers up the lines of her curved hips.
She offered no objection.
She liked the way he touched her without invitation.
A rush of anticipation unfurled inside her and she was desperate now to see how these days would unfold.
“Why did you really decide to come and be enslaved?” he enquired curiously.
“To accept the lifestyle that you have offered to me, to be re-born as a slave, to serve you. I thought Death Candy was a myth but I dreamed of it being real. Then, you walked into the club that night, and I knew that it was you.”
“You are a natural submissive, I saw it immediately, your potential. You have a burning desire to be owned, used and abused.”
“Yes, Sir, the feeling is profound.”
“I am evil. Don’t you feel it?”
Her pulse began to race and she felt her womanly wetness swell like a wave of hunger and need.
When he said that word.
Evil.
It set things off in her that she just couldn’t explain.
Her breath was deep and her chest heaved.
She looked at him with heavy eyes glazed with sinful lust.
“I have a darkness inside me unlike anything you could ever imagine,” he informed her, looking into her with a wicked need to feel her and hurt her, devouring every fold of skin, every crevice, his dubious and sleaze-fuelled eyes touching every part of her with raw deviance.
She revelled in the way that he looked at her and she silently invited it. His aura prickled at her skin and made her hairs stand on-end. She felt it in every part of her body, every zone that his eyes touched, stimulating her by the powers of his corrupted and psychopathic brain, putting his mouth all over her breasts, sucking her, licking her, taking of her what he wanted to take. Involuntary jolts of arousal travelled through her body from her shoulders down to her thighs as she gave into his lucid assault.
She felt like a pet, a toy, a thing.
He appeared wise as a God. He had the maturity of a thousand men. It was undeniable. Unquestionable, to her. She couldn’t take her eyes away from his fixated stare, as he took control of her mind and her body, feeling herself grow warm and slick, longing to feel him deep in her body.
The tension between them was majestic, like an electromagnetic wall, so real. Her desire to submit to him, completely, was at its peak. She wanted him to control her, painfully, and take her to the brinks of death. She was losing all self-awareness and self-control, mouth agape, nipples hard beneath the lace material of a luxuriant and seductive brassiere. She wanted to be naked, under his control, forevermore, no more clothes, just leather, chains and rope. She wanted to be whipped and put into agonising positions that would expose her and make her his prisoner, to beg for mercy, to be fed and watered on his schedule, and, to enjoy his offerings of sexual gratification whenever he granted it to her with spontaneous abundance.
He took her to the centre of the large living room.
It had two large leather sofas, a glass coffee table with stone legs in the eerie form of gargoyle figures, upon fur that was blacker than oil and soft as velvet. The books on the table appeared to be on subjects of true crime, methods of torture and the infliction of pain, and several guides to DIY. There was a book about Josef Fritzl, the Austrian man who held his own daughter captive in his basement for a period of twenty-four years, a freakish psychopath who The Candy Man had very much admired.
I am evil.
The words that he spoke resonated in her mind as she looked at the table and felt turned-on by his outward blasphemy and frightening intellect. He was everything that she had ever wanted, and, more; yes, much more.
There was a piano in the room.
Paintings hung upon the walls, dark oil paintings that invoked feelings of malice, animalism and ghastly homicides; it was a drastic contrast to the family photos that were displayed in the hallway.
“My family don’t come into this room, it is my consultation room, they know that I work as a form of therapist
and have a special facility in the basement.”
She turned to see that he was now holding something behind his back and was looking at her in a very threatening way that suggested an imminent violent attack.
What was it?
A blade?
He looked like he wanted to kill her.
I am evil.
She recalled the words, again, acutely aware of the sublime cooking aromas that emanated from the adjacent room.
Suddenly, she felt absolutely paralysed by fear, part of her wanting to stay and the other wanting to run from that house faster than she’d ever ran in her life.
Chapter 34
The taking of power
“What was happening, I have to ask, behind door No. 7?”
“It was a prostitute’s apartment.”
“A prostitute? A male prostitute?”
“No, a female one.”
“Was she bi-sexual? I hadn’t realised…”
“No, she wasn’t really, it wasn’t a sexual thing as such.”
“Not a sexual thing? What was it?”
“I stood there at the door and listened to them. In fact, the door had a gap at the hinge and I was able to see partly into the main living room, the flats there were falling apart. It was a place that my wife didn’t belong, she shouldn’t have been there, me neither.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw a woman with blonde hair in a satin night dress. I remember that she was wearing red lipstick and black high heels that were finished in suede. She looked very erotic and it aroused me.”
“You have a vivid memory.”
“Believe me, Detective, when you are in a place like that, watching your own wife in a hooker’s flat in the Blackhill Estate, it sticks with you, as much as you try to repress it and keep it buried way down in the basement of your mind, it remains clear, I can recall the whore’s sensual red lips, her sultry nightie and her suede heels like it was yesterday…she was skinny…on drugs for sure…but she’d been beautiful and very voluptuous at one point in her life…that much was evident…”
Colin nodded.
“The prostitute was sat on the couch which was covered completely in grotty-looking towels and my wife approached and stood in front of her. ‘Look at you,’ she said to the woman. ‘You fucking frigid little cunt, you are a worthless piece of shit, a cock-teasing little sissy-girl, wearing that lipstick and those heels,’ then I watched as her right leg viciously swiped across and she kicked her heels so that the shoes came off and flew across the room. ‘You dress like a whore, but you are a frigid little hussy, you should just kill yourself and do us all a favour. I won’t miss you. Mum and Dad won’t miss you. So just take a razor blade and slash your fucking wrists, bitch, OK?’ it was really awful the things that she was saying. She was physically imposing too with her fists and was threating to beat her, it looked like it too, as the whore was curling onto the couch and protecting herself as though she genuinely feared that my wife would beat her badly.”
“Shit,” Colin said, getting lost in the story, bemused by this strange turn of the tale.
“She stepped closer and all I could see was that shape of her behind, that tight red miniskirt stretched around her beautiful thighs, such an incredible figure my wife had. I got so aroused. I felt ashamed by the hardness that strained between my legs. She wore black tights that day and a black leather jacket. She had these little high heeled boots on that gave her a very sexy look. It was easy for me to imagine, Detective, that she’d be going to meet some secret lover at a private hotel.”
Colin nodded, unsure if what he saw happen behind Door No. 7 was going to be a dramatic relief for him or not, but he listened and consoled nonetheless.
“She ripped the woman’s nightie off with her fists, violently, the woman screamed. Nobody cared. People are screaming in that building all the time. ‘Shut up, bitch!’ she shouted at her and struck her across the face with a hard slap so that she slumped on the sofa. ‘No, I want my money first, give me the money,’ the hooker retorted with desperation and fear in her voice. ‘You’ll get your fucking money when I’m done with you, whore, you hear me? Huh? You hear me you cock-teasing frigid tramp?’ and again, she slapped her so hard that the smack resonated in my ears and made me flinch. She took rope and tape from the inside of her leather jacket and tied the girl up so that she couldn’t speak nor move, naked, exposed, on the couch. She stretched her open at the flesh of her behind and spat on her anus before telling her in derogatory fashion that her asshole and pussy were dirty and stank.”
“Christ,” Colin now had his mouth open and was perched on the edge of his chair.
“There was more. I watched as my fiancée slowly peeled up her red miniskirt, it was sensual and provocative, I remember.”
Colin could see that a bulge had formed from beneath his bathrobe and that the memory of seeing her do this had caused him to be hard once again; it wasn’t the most comfortable of interview situations he had to admit.
“She pulled the skirt all the way up to her waistline and I saw the full profile and shape of her buttocks, all creamy and fleshy, she had such an amazing behind. She stood there in her high-heeled boots just pouting her legs to the sides as she stood over the bound girl with her hands on her hips like she was enticing her to look at her bare and naked sex,” he was now flushed in the face and attempting to mask his full-on erection with the mug of chilled vodka that he cradled in his hands.
“What happened next?” Colin didn’t want him to pause, he was getting a raw report, an un-cut confession that was graphic and explicit as any movie or crime novel; it was a rare thing in the modern world of investigative policing.
“I felt so confused. She was doing this behind my back, with a prostitute, a female hooker, but it wasn’t sexual as such, more psychological…”
Colin nodded, it was a weird set-up for sure, he had the feeling too that it was going to get a whole lot weirder.
“She walked closer to the couch with her legs widely apart and she stood there with her vagina just inches from the woman’s face. It was so erotic. Then, she put a leg up on the couch, I saw her put her hands down to her genitalia and spread open her sex-lips and she started to piss…”
“She urinated on her?”
“Yes, she took great pleasure in it too, laughing like an evil psycho-woman as she did it. She urinated all over her face and her breasts and all around her lower body so that the hot, yellow liquid was flowing and streaming heavily and freely around all her womanly shape and her fleshy folds, down the crack of her anus and at the frontal region where her pubic mound became damp and wet.”
“Jesus, this is sick, what kind of a woman would accept such treatment for money?”
“She did, apparently, one of the few sex-workers in Glasgow who allowed clients to abuse her with psychological and physical torture for a bit of extra cash it would seem.”
“But, why?”
“Desperation, I suppose, money to buy drugs…”
“No, I mean, why would your wife pay a woman for the privilege of abusing her?”
“She had a traumatic childhood, Detective, she was raped badly.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I never knew that.”
“She came from a family of four girls and she was the youngest. Her eldest sister, Josephine, was promiscuous to say the least and was known to have been having sexual relations with all three of the Steel brothers who lived in the house next door. As well as being promiscuous, Josephine was a known bully with a dark side to her that was dangerous, malevolent and borderline homicidal. The other sisters were terrified of her but she isolated Lara and was horribly jealous of her, of her intellect, her natural charm, her good looks, the fact that other boys including the Steel brothers fancied her so badly. She hated her youngest sister and was intent on abusing her in ways that were deeply disturbing. She was left scarred.”
“Physical abuse?”
“Physical beatings, psychological torture,
sexual abuse…she decided even that if the Steel brothers wanted to fuck her so badly, then they could take their piece of her, so she got Lara involved in the action. She’d tie her up in the garage and invited the boys in so that they could all piss on her and stick sex-toys inside her body, vaginally, anally, they abused her badly and made her watch as the big sister took turns at performing extremely explicit sex acts on each of the boys. Kids can be very nasty, Detective, and that sister of hers was one nasty piece of work.”
“That’s not nasty, that’s evil…”
The vodka-swilling mess nodded back with a mater-of-fact shrug.
“Is that what the charade with the hooker was all about? Yes, you see, loss of control in any situation is a very traumatic thing where abuse is concerned. Someone is hurting you and you feel like you can’t do anything about it, can’t hit back, can’t retaliate. And, when that person is someone close to you it can be very confusing, being tormented in extreme ways by a person who is supposed to look after you and protect you. You have nothing to do but take the abuse and somehow try to deal with it. Therein lies the problem – how the do you deal with such things, Detective? I think this is how people get screwed in the head, the subconscious mind takes on a life of its own, for better-or-worse and we end up with all kinds of strange coping mechanisms.”
“If I may make a comment, these meetings with the Blackhill sex-worker, they show your fiancée in a very sadistic light. But, her disappearance, to live with a man who will enslave her would suggest a very much masochistic streak. You see what I mean?”
“I do, Detective, it is a valid observation too. But, you see, there was much more to it than what I’ve just told you. That little meeting was just the first act as far as that night went.”