by Gavin Graham
Chapter 39
Oven of bones
He wiped his mouth and raised his posture from the table.
He grabbed her by the arm and aggressively pulled her up from her chair. “Come here, you…”
“You’re hurting me. Get off!” she buckled with jerky instinct and protested.
He slapped her hard across the face. “You want to be a disobedient little kitten, eh?” he asked and threw her rampantly onto a ledge of bricks where a pizza oven was built into the sidewall. “Stop struggling, or I’ll cook you alive in the oven, then throw your charred bones into the sea,” his eyes flared and his laughter was a manic eruption. “We can do this the nice way, or, the hard way,” he looked behind her at the eerie-looking stove. “You want to be burned alive? Huh? You want to do the oven dance?”
She looked over her shoulder and was silenced by what she saw.
“Pipe down, kitten, you might start to enjoy it,” he stroked the back of his hand down the softness of her cheek. “You wanted this, so, stop pissing me off. It is clear that I may need to force you violently into submission, to make you scream so that you will obey, the way all disobedient little girls must scream. Is that what I have to do?” he purred, a grit in his tone that was smooth yet violent, caressing now and touching at the softness of her right leg, the inside of her thigh, stroking with a finger. “Is that what I have to do?”
“No, Master, I’ll play the game. You just scared me, that’s all,” she smiled as she spoke and parted her legs. She swiftly began to relax and a reluctant yet deviant smile flashed across her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I reacted that way…” her mouth hung heavy and she was practically drowning in his scowling eyes.
She was hot.
He could smell her heat and excitement.
Her vulgarity was a gloriously erotic muck that infused the air.
He could lick her as soon as kill her.
The Candy Man was ready to dance; not tonight though, she’d have to wait for death, she’d have to beg.
She was already begging, silently.
Kill me, Candy Man…
Please, Candy Man…
Just end it now, I beg you, I need to die…
Chapter 40
The dark game
She wanted it.
To be controlled, man-handled, taken strongly.
Her tantrum passed and she was left gaping and warm. Her eyes were alive with darkness and need.
It brought joy to his dark and evil heart.
“You’re a savage,” she said with adoration and surrender.
The side of his mouth tilted in a condescending smirk. He slowly unbuckled his belt and unzipped his black suit trousers. “You have no idea. This is the only night of normality we will ever have together. The meal. The drinks. The sex. It’s a one-off. A gift. So, you’d better enjoy it…” he explained this to her and raised his left hand to squeeze her throat.
She lost air rapidly and croaked.
With his right hand, he eased down his trousers and boxers and they dropped to his ankles, his girth thick and rigid.
“Please, just fuck me…” she muttered.
“I will torture you, hard, but I’ll fuck you even harder.”
“Yes. Thank you…”
“I want you to beg, so beg…” he tells her dismissively with a derogatory smirk that brings back that slightly confused look to her caramel gems.
“Fuck me, please, give it to me,” she spoke with more urgency and opened her legs wider.
He slapped her hard across the face and the sting reverberated in the walls of The Candy Man’s basement; a lonely place of pain and death but no love. “I can’t bloody hear you, Slave, you better start begging like you’re begging for your life…” his threat was silky and demonic and she felt the underside of his erection touch coldly at the warmth of her stomach.
She began to yell with desperation for him to take her, fireworks exploding inside, craving the feel of his full length as he pushed himself into her, revelling in the menacing scenario that she had foolishly roped herself into.
She trembled, quivers and shivers of ecstasy tingling down her spine, it was divine.
Little did she know, the true depths of insanity and psychopathic horror that were to be unleashed upon her, for the strange games had yet to even start.
A fire was burning in her gut.
He moved closer to taste her, parting her lips with his tongue and it travelled into the warm wetness of her mouth, probing against her hot tongue. She smiled as they kissed, swirling and slithering like snakes, and she moaned hoarsely into his mouth.
She fondled to his mid-section and stroked at his aching hardness.
“Are you The Devil?” she whispered as their lips parted, looking deeply into his eyes with disturbing allurement, fixation.
“I’m a serial killer,” he whispered back.
She revelled in the words, closing her eyes, inhaling deeply like it was the most wicked form of foreplay.
“I’m The Candy Man. You are my next victim. I’m going to kill you.”
“I love it when you speak to me like this, I love it,” she smiled widely and opened her eyes, devouring him, sinking evermore deeply into morbid forms of sinister and sexualised fantasies.
She thinks it’s all part of his dark game.
She’s wrong; she is so wrong.
Chapter 41
Programmes & facilities
Silvia played well to the stereotype of ‘alternative’ and she wasn’t ashamed to express her darkness, tastes or overt sexual appetites. She was friendly with two of the victims and she was clearly into the BDSM scene also.
“What can I do you for, then?” the owner of the apartment brought tea to the table and was curious as to what the police wanted to talk about.
“It’s about Shona and Jane. Were you aware that they recently went missing?” Rose lacked no confidence in her new role.
“I am aware of it. Well, I would have expected it from either of them, to be fair.”
“If I said that they were roped into a contract of sexual slavery, by a strange man who wanted to torture them in his basement, would that come as a shock?”
“Not really, sounds rather delicious, I actually wouldn’t mind a piece of that action myself.”
“Are you serious?” Mac retorted.
“Sure, why not? It’s OK for men to be overtly sexual in their comments and behaviours, but, when a woman shows her true colours she gets shamed for being a slut,” she spoke matter-of-factly, mostly addressing Mac, as Rose allowed her eyes to wander around the apartment and take it all in. There were erotic paintings of women being dominated by men, wearing leather chokers with metal spikes, handcuffs, blindfolds, scenes of humiliation and sensual torture.
She had a whole library of erotica books.
She had a display cabinet filled with sex-toys – dildos of all sizes and colours, different textures to enhance stimulation of the clitoris, complicated looking vibrators with electronic switches that controlled speed and level of pulsation, anal beads, butt plugs, nipple clamps, cock rings, lubes, poppers (amyl nitrate); there was a lot of adult ‘play things’ that she had proudly on display.
“Do you like what you see? Rose?” she asked the Irish Detective with playful mockery. “You should see what I have down in my basement…”
They both frowned and looked at her questioningly.
The woman laughed. “Look at your faces, Jesus, what prudish coppers you are…”
“We’re not here to judge, Shona, we just want to find out more information about the man who was behind the disappearance of the two women in question,” the Irish Detective replied.
“Who says it’s the same guy? And, who says they want to be found? Is it not a girl’s right to live with a man and enjoy absolute privacy to do whatever she wants, how she wants, when she wants, to give herself in the way that she chooses to give herself?” Shona had unparalleled confidence in her own rhetoric when she sp
oke and the vibe she had just added to her charisma and persona. She had black hair that had streaks of pink, but she made it work, like a suicide girl, dark eyes, tattoos, a tight-fitted black cotton tank top that gave visibility to her breasts and teased the imagination as the profile of her red lace bra was quite visible too. She wore tight leather pants and was clearly accustomed to wearing red high heels around the house; or, perhaps, she just liked to put on a show for visitors even if they were prudish coppers working on a serial killer case.
“Women have been taken, your friends, and we have reason to believe that many other women are in danger too.”
“There is always an element of risk involved should a practitioner wish to embark on a programme.”
“A programme?”
“Sure. A programme is a thing to be respected for its discretion and secrecy and a rare opportunity that gets offered to a practitioner should they accept contractually. How far it goes is up to the couple, and, of course it could lead to death.”
“So, other women have done this kind of thing to your own personal knowledge, and you can vouch for the fact that this kind of thing is happening in Glasgow?”
“Both women and men do it, they disappear from the scene, usually the ones who were fanatical and getting heavily into BDSM extremism. Mostly though, you are correct, it’s women seeking to be dominated by a man for the rest of their days and held in a ‘facility’ where she will be kept in a manner that agrees with her fantasies and desires.”
“A facility?”
“Yes, probably a secret basement in a house, where they will be kept under lock-and-key, a dungeon, there are supposed to be many in Glasgow – The Chapter, The Enclave, The Underground, Death Candy…”
“Sorry, what was that you said…?”
“There are many of these facilities in Glasgow…”
“No, the last name you said, Death Candy?”
“Yeah, that’s where one guy keeps his prisoners, he’s into some dark stuff, appeals to extreme violence fetishists. Some people say that he doesn’t even exist, others are certain that he does, sorry but this must be rather boring to you…”
“No, not at all, please continue…”
“Well I think that he exists and I know what he offers. Some women like to be psychologically abused, believe it or not, they want to feel fear, to thrive on it, to be threatened with death and murder and bodily mutilation. They want men to threaten them with knives, tell them they’ll be ripped open sexually, mutilated, carved and butchered, even eaten alive. That is a service that such a man can provide.”
“Women want that? They ask for that? They commit themselves to be enslaved and subjected to such treatment on a 24/7 basis?”
“Well, that’s a part of it, but with extreme fear and extreme pain also comes extreme pleasure…sexual gratification…sensual satisfaction…the fulfilment of a fantasy…”
“Were these two women into that kind of thing?”
“Yes. Big time.”
“Look. You may want to take a deep breath. They’re both dead, Silvia, a serial killer known as The Candy Man tortured them sexually and murdered them.”
She turned pale. “What? No. That can’t be. You’re shitting me, right?”
“No, it’s for real, he made videos of the killings.”
“Is this for real?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.”
“What can I do to help? I’m sorry for being so aloof…”
“Keep an eye out at the clubs, so that he might approach you, then we can rope him in. Give out the vibe.”
“What vibe, Detective?”
“Whatever it was that he saw in them I want him to see it in you. If he approaches you, if you think he is the one, you call me. OK?” Mac made it all sound so simple.
The woman agreed to help in any way that she could.
Chapter 42
Her last taste of lust: twisted, vile & evil
Waves of euphoria crashed and chemical reactions occurred inside her, overwhelming her psyche, her natural response to the dark words and sultry slaps of a mind-controlling sex killer.
He had her now into a drug-like state of hypnosis.
She felt him in her veins and in her blood. This was her heroin, her meth-amphetamine, her crack cocaine. It was a drug as addictive as it was deadly and when she tasted it she knew that her life would never be the same again. She would lose everything that she ever valued and give it all to him, to feel thrills and chills in her bones and in her sex, in a heartbeat she sold her soul to The Devil. Why? For the fickle of his sickie tickle as he licked her oozing tick. Even when he promised to kill her in the end, that her stained and bleeding corpse would never be found, she didn’t care, because she knew deep down that no other thrill could ever come close to what he made her feel.
It was simple.
She knew it.
They all knew it.
Death is the new sexy.
Murder is the new black.
He pushed hard with his hips and eased into the fold of her lips.
He wanted to feel the hotness clench around him as she screamed with pleasure and pain, dominating and breaking her spirit, killing her essence each time only to bring her back to life; or, perhaps, to let her die.
Her breathy moans became rampant and wild as she enjoyed his assault, shivering with a grotesque fear, so deeply turned-on. She had her hands around his neck and her bare legs wrapped around his naked midriff. She pulled with her heels, digging into the backs of his thighs, urging him forth to enter more ferociously with every thrust.
He indulged that need and her response was rather magnificent.
Her eyes were rolling into the backs of their sockets and the lids flickered like she was possessed by demons or, even better, in the clutches of imminent death. She arched her back with theatrical effect, groaning to the skies, spinal bones rippling in the sack of her skinny back. She was a serpent as she received him, a divine goddess of all that is sex and all that is dark, a beautiful specimen that brought a dark liveliness to his laser-focussed eyes. Her hands were pressed back, flat on the bricks. Her head fell backwards like it weighed a tonne, eyes closed, blonde tendrils flaying as she grunted to the heavens like a dying goat.
She was in a sublime state of sensual euphoria and madness.
It was turning the killer on too.
She was just his kind of meat.
She’d make good candy and a fine kill.
He felt her body tense from the inside, like pure electricity, it caused him to gasp hard and tense his legs. He supported her lower back and felt acutely as she kept drawing him into her more intensely. She was relentless, so loud, but the facility was sound-proof and his family upstairs wouldn’t hear a damn thing.
A violent ending awaited her.
It was almost time.
Images of death played-out like a movie in his head as he felt himself coming, his fingers jittering, the backs of his thighs quivering, the muscles in his biceps like jelly, saliva spurting from his mouth as he growled evermore loudly. In his moment of ejaculation, he wanted to kill her more than anything else in the whole world, the need to punish her so strong. He looked down and was hallucinating as he imagined waves of cherry-red blood flow and drip across the soft, milky flesh of her bare, swaying breasts; it was a morbid form of hyper-arousal that he always attained in the act of climax. Sex was an integral part of his maliciousness. It set the scene, for the penultimate acts of torture and mutilation, to awaken the demon that slept beneath his skin.
He kept stabbing into her, planting his seed to the last push and smirking with macabre delight as the urge to kill washed over his body, relishing in the visual sight of what would soon be nothing more than a paling corpse.
Death was in the tautness of her white shoulders and he saw it clear as day.
He wasn’t insane.
Was he?
It reassured him that the coming days would bring great delight as she realised her true destiny. Pr
ofuse bleeding would surge from the fat that rippled around her perfect tummy. It excited him. He saw in his mind’s eye the crimson spill as it spurted and bubbled from her beautiful mouth, wide open, as she orgasmed, growling like a dog and convulsing as she climaxed, revelling in the grandiose feel of his internal spill. He heard nothing but death in the succulence of her moans, groans and screams.
He loved nothing more than the sound of a girl screaming.
Her utterances of indulgent pleasure just coaxed him more and more toward the act of murder.
It was twisted, vile and evil.
But, of course, it has always been that way for me (I’m back, just for a few chapters…).
Indeed, it has been like this since I had my very first sexual experience with an older girl at school. It culminated, ultimately, with me raping and killing her. That night of the school dance was what turned me onto the dark path.
You want to hear about it?
OK, fine, then let’s go back in time…
Chapter 43
Trip…switch… (memory lane, murder lane)
Black Watch High School, Cumbernauld, 1994.
It’s a special night.
Death is in the air and the smell is pungently alarming.
The school ceilidh has unfolded into a drunken shindig and my date for the evening is a young, inebriated slut who wears a black, sparkly dress.
I drive her, drunkenly, far from the main road and deep into the dark woods.
I soon have her in the backseat of the car and we both know what’s on the menu.
I inhale the scent of her shampooed locks, massive curls of red hair that bounce around her shoulders in waves, giving her a look that’s mature and sultry. I touch her knee and allow two fingertips to caress upward to where I imagine I might find a flimsy lace thong beneath her fancy, sparkling dress. Her prom attire is dead tight at the top and loose and free down below, black with that gold glitter that catches the eye and is designed to make men look. It’s accentuated by a lotion that she’s massaged across her chest to give her overall being a quality that shimmers. She wants to be expensive and sought-after, like a diamond in the rough, like her older sister who’s a known slut.