by Gavin Graham
“There was more?”
“Yes, she had another appointment set for that particular evening and as a dutiful husband I duly continued to follow her with curiosity and suspicion.”
“So, her first act was about taking back power, taking the position of the sadist who tormented her, does that mean that her second act is where the masochistic element came into play?”
“You catch on fast, Detective, this story continues to be morbid and bizarre. Are you sure you want me to continue?”
Colin nodded, enthralled by the depth and darkness of the case.
Chapter 35
The living room
His hands were crossed behind his back, he disguised an object in his grip which she believed to be a blade as he stood tall before her, a shadow cast to his rear with dramatic and Hitchcockian effect. “I have something for you.”
She frowned.
From behind his back he took a cushion that was wide and thick, of luxurious black velvet, the insignia of a lion was embroidered into the front and elegant gold fray hung from each corner. He gave it to her. “Get on your knees,” he commanded with steely assurance. “You were born to be down there on the ground, on your knees, so remove your clothes and bow to your Master. The heels, they can stay on, I like you in the shoes. There is nothing more erotic than the nudity of a beautiful woman, in the bare flesh, wearing nothing but high heels. Don’t you think?”
She smiled and nodded, looking to the kitchen door, wondering if his wife was really there. The thought that his family could be present there in the house at that very moment gave her a wicked thrill. “Yes, Master,” she obeyed and immediately started to unbutton her shirt and unclip her bra.
Meanwhile, the homely psychopath went to a bar by the window and poured a glass of whisky, a single malt, from Islay. He listened as he poured to the unpeeling sounds of her undressing repertoire, the noise of her zipper and clicking of heels as she stepped around, rolling off the jean leggings and her stained panties. She dropped the garments onto a neat pile on the floor. She stood there in the coldness of the room, her exposed enclave uncomfortably wet, warm and needy, her nipples growing stiff, skin pale and white, so bare, so vulnerable; this was her place and she knew it.
He turned his posture in that perfectly-tailored black suit, a pure Alpha male, sipping his whisky and glaring at his latest acquisition.
I am evil.
He went back to her and gazed intermittently between her face and body parts, taking his sweet time to appraise, showing appreciation by nodding in agreeance as the smooth burn of the malt heated his insides.
She blushed a feminine blush as he took evaluation of her bare nudity like that, a heated crimson softly showing at her cheeks, the sides of her neck and the top part of her chest; not so much caused by her self-awareness but her ultimate desire not to disappointment. She wanted to be a good slave and a worthy prisoner.
“Assume the position now. I gave you a command and all commands must be obeyed.”
She squatted, carefully balanced on her heels as her toes pointed inwards, a feminine gesture of silent submission. She positioned the cushion with her delicate and slender hands before putting her knees down upon it and pulling her body upright. She raised her posture as much as she could, dead-straight spine, squared shoulders and chin up with hands clasped behind her back; she was no stranger to that position. There was a nervous knot that curled in her stomach, one of excitement and anticipation, tempered by the tranquil calm that comes from being a naturally submissive woman; she was born to be a victim and she’d always known it.
“Are you ready for this? To be indoctrinated fully into the most extreme and dark BDSM lifestyle that can be offered? To give yourself to boundless explorations of pleasure and pain? To be wholly owned? Body, mind and spirit? To give your life to me, to do with it as I see fit, for better or worse?”
He made it sound like a marriage, those commitments, those vows.
“Yes, I am ready,” she said, looking up at him like she was a dog, a masochistic coolness in her eyes.
“I want to know more about you. What is your age, girl?” he snapped in a way that was almost scolding.
“Thirty-five years old, Sir.”
“I want to take guttural gratification from your body, from every orifice, in whatever way that I please. By day, and, by night. Does that excite you?”
“Yes, Master,” she said, her pupils dilated with lucid fascination, rippling puddles of sinister obedience. She was under his spell, heavily, ready for whatever was to come of this.
“Does it make you wet when I make it clear that I want to dedicate my life to using your body to satisfy my devilish cravings?”
“Yes, it does…” she bit her lower lip and clenched her buttocks ever-so-slightly.
“Are you a true BDSM practitioner? Do you take sincere pleasure in pain? Or, do you just like the props, the scenes at the clubs, the fact that it is a cool underground culture to get into?”
“I revel in erotic pain, blood and tears bring more joy to me than laughter, it has long been this way for me.”
“This is not some kind of a soft-porn BDSM sex club that I have here, a half-arse secret dungeon for would-be practitioners that merely want to experiment and do a little bit of dress-up and role-play. This is the real thing, kitten, I will test you and show you unimaginable thresholds of physical agony and sexual pleasure, boundaries of pain-resilience that you have only ever dreamed of,” he spoke matter-of-factly, crouching down to look directly into her eyes, raising her chin with the underside of his thick finger. “Is this truly what you want? This is your last chance to escape.”
“Yes, I want this, I want to serve you and suffer under your hand.”
“Are you in a relationship? Do you have ties? People who will miss you? Anyone, should I say, that might come looking for you? To track you down?”
“My husband, but, he was expecting me to leave him anyway. I never got to meet any man who was willing to hurt me in the ways that I’ve always needed to be hurt, so, the marriage was never going to work. Even in the BDSM clubs, I never found the level of darkness that I craved, not even close.”
He was smirking with approval. “What about family?”
“My parents are dead, they both died in a car accident when I was a teenager, I was in University accommodation at the time and I’ve lived alone since. I have no siblings or cousins. I’m kind of a loner, the only things that keep me going are my fantasies, re-reading the erotic books that I read as a young girl like The Story of O. Lately, I became obsessed with watching hard pornography and then later visiting BDSM fetish clubs to try and live out my fantasies.”
“The Story of O is a fairy tale in comparison to what I will show you. So, you have no family, none at all?”
“I have an uncle, a Professor, here in Glasgow. He won’t come looking for me though…”
He knew very well who he was, the eccentric profiler of serial killers and their wicked crimes, and the illustrious Detective’s eternal drinking partner.
“Are you sure that he won’t come looking?”
“Yes,” her eyes were heavy and her lips parted in a way that suggested a burning desire to unbuckle those dark pants and lovingly take his manhood into her hot, swirling mouth.
“What is his name?”
“Why do you need to know his name?”
He stepped closer to her and raised his hand before slapping her hard across the face. A sharp sound reverberated and echoed in the airy room.
He looked cautiously to the kitchen door where his wife prepared the victim’s last supper.
She’d never, ever, been slapped by a man. The shock, the sting, it made her gasp as a hot rash of discomfort exploded upon her cheek. It was cruel and humiliating but also strangely arousing to be scolded like that. She liked that he showed nothing in the way of hesitation, in fact, she’d always fantasised about a man hitting her, to check her, and put her in her place.
She’d dese
rved it for her disobedience.
She perhaps secretly wanted it for her own satisfaction.
It stung like Hell and felt good.
In a strange way, she wanted him to do it again, maybe even take it a step further.
“His name?” he asked again, calmly, patiently.
“Professor Alistair Sinclair,” she punctuated the name clearly and fearlessly.
“Good,” he said, having already known it, but, he’d wanted to hear her say it. “If you ever question me again or answer back like that you will live to regret it and you will not only beg for mercy but you will beg for your pathetic life. Is that understood?”
“Yes, I will never question your authority, I promise. I will take whatever punishment I deserve,” she replied to him with apologetic and deeply committed eyes, finding his control of the situation to be totally erotic, everything about his maturity and darkness getting her turned-on to the ends of the earth. Every time he spoke his words caused a strong current of submissive electricity to travel through her body.
Sexual subjugation.
Her need for erotic pain.
To give all power of being to another, to decide whether she lives or dies, to nurture or destroy her.
Total submission.
The acute recognition, acceptance and self-awareness of her need was stronger than it had ever been.
“I will show you the way. Positions that you have never seen nor heard of nor imagined in your darkest fantasies. Positions that come from the worst prisons and torture camps in the world, through history, a level of endurance that will awaken a newfound power within you as we learn together how strong or how weak you truly are, where your tolerance threshold really lies to the most severe levels of pain. And, of course, we will see how capable you are of serving me sexually in the most devilish and ungodly manners. Yes?”
“Yes, Sir,” she muttered and looked up into his violent eyes, deep pools of mysterious smoke, wholly servient to them as endless swarms of butterflies danced in her gut.
“To sleep bound in ropes and chains, as I see fit, used and abused, as I see fit, your soul mines to take, at any time, should I choose. And, as much as I take, I shall give back all that you need, all that you have ever wanted in spirit and in body. Is it what you want?” he spoke with rhythm, a smoky voice that was soft yet ferociously wicked, deliciously taunting and deadly as it was sensual.
“Yes, Master, I want it,” she reassured him, thrilled to a feeling of numbness, entranced.
“Your whole life you secretly wished for a killer to come along and bring you here. You are a perfect victim. Your ultimate fantasy has always been to die at the hands of a skilled master in the murder game,” it was like hypnosis, a macabre and morbid form of role-play, and the family environment and aromas of cooking merely provided false confirmation to her that deep-down it could not possibly be real. “As you were laid in bed, next to unworthy lovers, spineless boyfriends, you dreamt of it, your fingers a tickle on your pussy trickle, as their lifeless bodies slept quietly beside you? A flower of flesh blooming as you touched, unfurling for the possibility of a darker destiny, wanting defilement, in the sultry grain of your sticky mouth, the heat and wetness that you felt inside as it burned, that need to be dominated and controlled to the point of near-death in sex, you were secretly calling for me to come and take you, and, I came for you. Here I am.”
She was soaked in the juices of her own sleaze.
His repertoire of evil was the most sexual thing she had ever encountered; not in book nor film nor reality. A cool parcel of air hit upon her chest and washed down over her breasts causing her inflamed nipples to crease and wrinkle with acute sensitivity, tuned-in to all that was occurring in space and time, alive with a need that was somehow esoteric and mysterious. Her desire was now something of the occult and blackness and all things that were sinister. She felt her own stare deepen and a demonic slant emerge in her own eye, a spark of evil, something delightful and malevolent. She was bowing now to The Devil and she was ready to lay at his Altar and give herself as a sacrificial lamb, to be devoured by a pack of salivating and hungry wolves, taken for flesh and bone and a soul that was already sold, for thrills and spills, violent humiliation, and promises of horrific debasement.
His smouldering eyes were intoxicating.
Alluring and evil.
Wicked and sensual.
“I see great potential in you, Casandra, great potential.”
“Thank you, Master, I promise not to disappoint you.”
“In that case you shall be rewarded, right here, right now.”
The line of her mouth creased in a grin of satisfaction and sexual glee.
“You may stand now, Slave, so that I may nourish your cunt and bring you to climax…”
Chapter 36
The Devil is touching you…
The aching between her legs was unbearable.
He slithered a hand between her fleshy thighs and penetrated her sex with a long, probing finger. She made a sensual noise that was primitive and uncouth and swayed with her hips, a slow forward thrust, inviting him to touch more deeply into her.
He held his finger inside and moved it around ever-so-slightly.
“Oh, fuck,” she muttered.
He raised his left hand and slapped her hard across the face. The shock of the slap and the unexpected pressing of his submerged finger made her seize with fright. She gasped and sucked in air with shock.
“This is a family home, you uncouth little bitch, you hear me? Don’t you dare talk that way in the presence of my wife and children. Control that mouth, or, I’ll stick a gag in it. Understood?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I…”
“Shut your mouth…you speak only when I ask you to speak…is it clear?”
She nodded.
He continued to move his finger inside her and touch on her softest and deepest spot.
She closed her eyes and opened her mouth as the warmth of his hand pressed firmly against her quaking clitoris. The sex of his touch was like black magic. It was indescribable. Her buttocks clenched intermittently to contain the growing inferno that flamed around her uterus. She gave herself to him as he held her. She lost herself in shady eyes that were darkly alive with sadistic intent. “I grant you permission to open your legs wider for me if you want more.”
She wasted no time and stepped forward with her heels several inches further to the side, each one in turn, thrusting her pelvis to him like she was a sex-hungry animal. The cushion was now directly below her glistening lips and tiny droplets dripped down. She felt the skin at her thighs separate where they’d been pressed together by a sticky misting of sweat. She gripped tightly onto his shoulders and kept pouting and punching with her groin for him to penetrate deeper and harder.
He bounded with his closed fist, faster, relentlessly probing until he sensed that the intensity of it was almost too much for her to handle. He saw that her mouth was open like she wanted to scream, her face squirmed and twisted as she used all of her strength and power just to contain her response, it was a delight for him to see a woman like this whilst knowing that he would soon kill her. “You may orgasm, now, do it…”
Her buttocks started to tremble as he pulled the finger back onto her wall from inside and she buckled quietly, clenching tightly as she came, her sex drenching as a river. Her eyes turned into the sockets and she groaned softly and as he slowly pulled his finger from her body a warm, thick trickle of bodily honey gushed from her to leave the cushion soaked with her stains.
He stood up and held her lovingly. “Look at me,” he said in a tone that was quiet and deadly.
She raised her glazed eyes to meet his.
She was drunk on his touch.
He smiled and showed her his tongue and moved it up and down in a way that was extremely vulgar.
He looked like The Devil, so powerful and dark, like a warped poet of the occult.
He spat on her right breast and she looked down as the clear
saliva dripped from her nipple. “I just marked my territory, that breast belongs to me now, it is for me to use as I please,” he informed her matter-of-factly. He raised the finger, still glistening in her fluids, and put it to her left nipple. He made it slick before gently twisting it.
“Oh, fuck…” she gasped, flinched and sucked for air, realising that she had done it again, and she waited for him to slap her hard across the face.
“You really are an insolent little whore, you need to be taught some serious discipline, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she murmured in obedience to his authority.
He raised his hand and again she flinched but this time he made his hand into a spade with the thumb rigid at an angle and he grabbed her neck from the side, his fingers at the base of her skull as the thumb went tight up beneath the chin where he squeezed hard and cut off her ability to breath. “You are my Slave now, you will be my slut and my whore when I want you to be and I will use your body as I see fit, when it is your time to die I will kill you and dispose of your body.”
She responded like she was on the verge of a painful orgasm, asphyxiation was a major turn-on for her, one of her triggers. She’d learned this with men at the BDSM clubs, it was a button, a thing to set her on a path of extreme sexual intensity and a masochistic need for pain and domination that made orgasms unimaginably stronger.
He looked into her eyes and put his lips so that they were almost touching hers, still choking, strangling her so that she was now starting to gag and splutter and her face turned crimson red as her eyes popped yet she desperately blinked her obedience to him before he suddenly released her neck from the death-choke that he’d held her in with such dominance and life-threatening enforcement.
She caught her breath for dear life and coughed and heaved painfully.
Spector picked-up the stained cushion. “I keep these as souvenirs, I have one for each of my victims, so that I can smell them,” he put it to his nose and inhaled the pungent stench of her juices. “Then I can remember, how vital they were, before I ended their lives.”