The Candy Man: One of the most extreme serial killer novels you'll ever read... (DCI Mac McGreavy Book 4)

by Gavin Graham

  That bitch.

  She was back in Glasgow.

  She really boiled his piss.

  She was the reason, after all, that the Death Candy circus had to be driven full-throttle into the lives of the Glasgow public. She’d fled to America, to get away from him, even despite the terrible crime that she’d committed he’d decided not to chase her down internationally, yet, he vowed to hunt her like an animal and gut her bowels should she ever return.

  Her crime against wasn’t enough, apparently, no, she had to write a book that would try to humiliate him.

  His hands trembled uncontrollably as he held the paperback in his hand because as soon as he’d read the newspaper piece he’d gone out to buy it without delay: MY LIFE OF TORMENT WITH A SUSPECTED GLASGOW SERIAL KILLER.

  WTF?

  Yes.

  Without giving away his identity she’d written a damn book about him.

  He’d been so in love with her, let his guard drop, and he’d confided in her. She was the only one who knew about the girl he’d killed at school and she even knew the location of where he’d buried her body.

  He was in a daze, a state of shock, still trying to process the information and make sense of it all. The cops would use her, bleed information from her, and they’d track him down.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  They’d never understand how a betrayal like that really puts things into perspective, to have something taken from you, something that is part of you. He was deserving of a position, morally and financially, to have a say in what she did.

  No.

  She didn’t even ask his opinion.

  Nobody cared for his feelings, never had, never would.

  The seed of hatred had been planted and an awesome entity had been conjured in the shadow of her departure.

  She was back and she had to suffer all the more now for the things that she’d written about him in her measly little book.

  He feared that his game would be brought abruptly to a crashing halt.

  He had to get to her before the cops did.

  Yes.

  He had to kill her, imminently, just as soon as he was finished with the girl in the basement…

  Chapter 47

  The man in the chrome skull mask

  He was standing in the basement.

  He was completely naked but for his signature ‘chrome skull mask’ which he wore for both torturing footage and actual executions. He never made video tapes of the foreplay as that was partly for his own enjoyment. For him, it was like being on a date, in his own morbid way, and he always enjoyed the intimacy of violent intercourse. The Death Candy snuff vids were just for the cops, though, and the only kind of porn they needed was ‘murder porn’.

  He was looking at a door made from reinforced steel with heavy bolts and a keypad lock. It had a small rectangular window where he could look into the small cell and see the object…her…a thing that was now bound in ropes and waiting for me to come and pleasure her. She is just a deviant female who was manipulated and conned into a world of absolute horror; such an easy victim.

  He felt nothing.

  It was the virtue of his coldness, the vileness of a vacuum, a Void deeper and darker than any Abyss.

  There is an absence of goodness in all arenas of evil.

  He supposed that his obsession with sadomasochism was a condition of the brain that he had no control over, like drug or alcohol addiction, as they say now, perhaps a mere facet of clinical psychology that is driven by a dormant dysfunctionality in his mind.

  Was he born that way?

  Is evil born?

  Or, is it nurtured?

  His girlfriends had often teased him as being a perverted weirdo that was into bondage, a sociopath who needed whips and chains for sex to feel normal, role-play that involved rape and murder, they said he wasn’t right in the head. He always smiled quietly because they knew nothing of the murders that he’d actually committed, the girls he’d buried, that the games were all just to remind and perhaps rile him to another such act of hideous violence.

  One girl mocked him and she lived when she should have died.

  She committed a terrible crime.

  He still held a personal vendetta against her and planned on brutally destroying her for what she did, she knew too exactly who she was and why she was deserving of death.

  She’d even written about him in a book.

  Soon, she would die, just like this sinful whore would die too.

  That vacuum that he saw in himself was most probably the essence of what constitutes true evil; maybe, just maybe, he was the most wicked man who ever lived…

  The itch needed to be scratched.

  Perhaps, one day, the pain (that is, the need) would go away; he knew however that such a notion was nothing more than a flimsical fallacy.

  He had this beautiful slave now in his possession, at his mercy, and he was free to punish and kill her as he saw fit.

  Did it make him feel strong?

  Powerful?

  Yes, it did.

  Kill them all.

  Bury them in the ground as they fall, all of them, like harlots into the sea.

  He looks at her and feels butterflies in his stomach, an aching heaviness in his balls, a kind of jelly-like feeling of excitement in his legs. She is bound in ropes, in a position of discomfort and extreme erotic humiliation, naked and somehow filthy, her hair already has an oiliness to it that comes across as dirty and unfeminine, no more kink to her slink, just a bucket of mess in her hideous flesh. The reality of this world is much harsher than the fantasies she lived out in her head, or, in the clubs, and this of course is the ‘soft’ stage which is supposed to be fuelled primarily with forbidden pleasures of the dark erotica.

  There is arousal there, sure, but she also looks scared, petrified and bitterly confused.

  He likes it.

  This is how he wants them to be at this stage.

  He wants the cops to see that, for the Detective to know how vulnerable and weak these woman are, and how almighty and powerful The Candy Man truly is when they walk willingly into his world.

  She can’t speak nor scream.

  Her mouth is filled with a red rubber gag-ball tightly fixated to her face by a leather strap. Little whimpers escape, sometimes, already close to tears as she feels the strain in the twist of her arms as they were viciously pulled behind her back and tied. Sometimes, too, he’d gone down to watch her in those moments where she would raise herself onto her tiptoes to somehow alleviate the acute discomfort of a full bladder. “Piss,” he would command the slave to urinate as he placed a bucket on the floor between her legs.

  She tries desperately to be strong.

  She’s very weak, however, this one.

  She makes him smirk.

  There was no empathy left.

  Even despite the killings, he’d had the capacity to feel love and express emotions at one point in his life, but, that was before the ‘bad thing’ happened and his whole view towards the scab and her creed was to change for the worst.

  The hate inside him burned like a blue flame.

  The violent fantasies got out of control, he had to make it real, to plan, to plot, to execute…

  You think you know evil?

  You don’t have a clue…

  This is sexual sadism to the utmost extremity.

  This is every woman’s worst nightmare.

  He revels in their fearful apprehensions.

  She never expected this.

  She knew that it would be dark, but, not like this.

  She wanted to feel pain and fear and to push the boundaries of BDSM role-play that had become an object of obsession for her much more so than mere fantasy.

  She wanted to be taken: under his wing…his ownership…his command…

  She willingly put herself in this position, as his sexual prisoner, trusting him, falling for his tricks, hanging on his words.

  He will de
stroy her, mind and body, until there’s nothing left and she will have no hope left, no desire to live, and that is what he revels in the most. Not the coming of death as such or the point at which he decides to end her life, no, but the point where she starts to want it.

  He wants her to invite death.

  He wants her to beg for murder.

  This is the essence of a Death Candy production.

  That is the juice, the real thrill, not as a practitioner in her world of BDSM but in his own world as a brutal sex killer.

  She asked for it: “Yes, Spector, I want it, I need it, I am worthy of your keeping and I will prove it to you. I’ll prove it! Just give me a chance!”

  Well, now she’ll get what she so wished for, the full package of misery and destruction.

  No boundaries.

  No limits.

  There are no safe-words here that might help in keeping her alive once all Hell breaks loose behind that steely door in his basement, nothing and nobody will be able to save her then.

  He opens the door and goes in.

  For the first time, she sees him in the chrome skull mask, his signature snuff movie ‘death mask’, and her world falls apart in such a way that her legs tremble.

  He looked at how the flesh at her knees quivered and streaks of yellow fluid began to stream down the insides of her thighs. He got aroused at that sight. Her hot, yellow piss, squirting and pouring down the insides her pale, white skin.

  The Candy Man grew erect at that sight and began to laugh at her like a complete lunatic.

  This woman was in for a whole world of trouble.

  Chapter 48

  The ‘strappado’ method

  Casandra hadn’t been able to hold her bladder, yet, it hadn’t stopped him from getting aroused.

  Her figure was terrific, shapely in all the right areas: hips, breasts, and buttocks. She invoked within him cool feelings down in the gut, waves of heat that warmed his loins, surges of need that made his cock stiffen.

  She liked it.

  It got her excited to see him like that, so hard, just for her; it made all the pain seem worthwhile.

  Sex had been quite a delight by the oven where he’d threatened to roast her alive. She’d begged for it and he filled her to the hilt. He gracefully awarded her what had been the object of her lust. He hissed like a snake as he fucked her, hard and relentlessly, ferociously. He caused her painful excitement by strangulation. The cold lick of a knife was used to caress her breasts and genitalia in the aftermath of her blistering orgasm.

  That was then.

  This is now.

  This is not about pleasure.

  No.

  It is about pain.

  It is about fear.

  She’s tied to the wall.

  Her body is now subjected to pains and strains that she has never before experienced for she’s in a ‘strappado position’. Her arms were bound aggressively behind her back and elevated to a hook on the wall, which a rope is attached to (the ‘suspension point’). Her ankles are spread wide apart by a metal spreader bar so that the lips of her sex are exposed. Her stance is alternated between the balls of her feet and the slight raising onto tip-toes so that her butt is in a pout, sensually, kissed by the musty air that envelopes her shoddy body.

  It is an erotic sight to see.

  Most submissive practitioners know the ‘strappado’ well, give themselves freely to it, as it is a widely-accepted position in the BDSM community. As with many BDSM practices the history behind it is dark, violent and shocking. The position was designed specifically for the torture and mutilation of prisoners, and, that is the intended use for which he’d have her believe he was going to use it (on her).

  The rope is tight and fit-for-purpose.

  It’s not like anything she’ll have felt before.

  It’s not finessed with a luxurious and soft finish, no, it is one that is hard and scathing. There is no elasticity to this binding especially for the ropes that hold her arms and raise them to the wall, any accidental slipping could lead to painful dislocation of the shoulders, that would conveniently evolve their ‘scene’ into the next stage of pain. The rope is tied in a web around her bare breasts, her nipples raw, whilst an independent crotch rope has been tied down below and pulled so tightly that her vagina is swollen, red and stretched.

  It titillates her and he sees it…her fuse…her ooze…

  He approaches and slaps her hard across the left breast. She flinches with pleasure, bound and helpless, completely unguarded and at his mercy.

  The gimp-ball is firmly in her mouth, her moans and groans muffled and drowned, her eyes glazed with a depraved form of need and excitement.

  This is what she came for.

  This is what she wanted.

  She was instructed clearly: only answer to the ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ questions with a nod or a side-to-side movement of the head.

  “Do you like that?” he asks her tauntingly.

  She nods and blinks, her face flushed, the strain is mounting.

  He moves to a table at the side of the cell and takes a pair of make-shift nipple clamps; essentially 19mm paper clips purchased from a high-street stationary shop. They’re strong, rigid and brutal. He smiles at her, puts his face close to hers and playfully bites at her cheek, moving then to her ear and whispering the words: “I can smell the ooze from your needy slit. She’s hungry, isn’t she? Her pungency is an assault on my nostrils.”

  She nods whilst taking staggered and hard breaths.

  “Do you want me to fill it?”

  She nods.

  He smiles, still not sure if she is truly deserving of it, deciding however that she should be granted a little more slap and tickle before she dies.

  “You know that I will kill you, don’t you?”

  She thinks this is roleplay, part of the game, part of the show. She frowns, nodding slowly, clearly somewhat confused by what he actually means. She still needs time to figure it out. She has come after all to learn and progress. He promised her psychological torture and told her that it would be the most challenging element of all.

  She has started now to see the true darkness in his eyes, that he is dangerous, and that he plays the evil part all too well.

  He snaps the clips onto her nipples and her body shudders in pained shock.

  The outline of her shrieking squeal fills the air.

  He retreats once more to the side-table to retrieve a butcher’s knife. He turns gripping the blade in his right hand and with his left he squelches her neck. He starts to strangle her and with the tip of the blade he sensually runs it all the way down the entire profile of her body, from her neck, down to the rope-binding around her breasts and all the way to her belly-button, going even lower, down to her genitalia where he stops and presses the flat part of the blade against her pubic wall; cold steel against warm pubis – the ultimate chill-thrill.

  Her eyes explode with fear as he smiles, a deviant smile, wild with seedy intent.

  She ups on her tiptoes again as she begins to truly ponder what kind of absurd danger she has gotten herself into.

  He slides the blade tight beneath the rope at her womb and pulls back to cut, jerking the blade as she tenses, feeling the point of the blade pierce as it penetrates her skin and causes her to bleed. The rope frays as the blood runs and it breaks apart. The tautness that had numbed her sexual region is now loose, the area fired-up, red and sore, a sweet and warm honey dripping from her centre.

  Her eyes deflate with relief and she looks down hungrily at his large erection. He circles to her rear and presses a salivated finger deep into her anus. She wasn’t expecting it and gasps with fright. He pushes deeply into her and holds it there whilst whispering into her ear: “Dirty girls get fucked hard before I torture them. Is that what you want?”

  She nods and whimpers as he reaches round with the blade and applies another small cut to her stomach.

  She starts to cry.

  “You didn’t respond.”


  She nods with reluctance.

  “Good, you want to be tortured, that is good. But, I don’t think I like you anymore, you are too weak to serve me. You don’t belong in this world. The best thing for you right now will be to leave this world and die.”

  She frowns and slowly starts to move her head in a fearful side-to-side motion.

  He abruptly removes his finger from her filth and takes a tight fist of her hair pulling her blonde tendrils hard from behind. He puts a hand hard around her throat and this time he squeezes so hard that he crushes her neck. “Down here, I am God, and if I say it is time for you to die then it is time for you to die. OK?”

  Tears well-up in her eyes.

  He moves to her front and spits in her face.

  Her tear-filled eyes open wide and blink uncontrollably as she feels the point of the knife, again, this time at the insides of her thighs. He trails up her flesh to the wet, parting of her tender lips. “You said that you wanted to be fucked,” he growls at her and sneers, holding the blade with the sharp end wedged into her fold, ready to plunge it in.

  She screams: “No!” with her bulging eyes, face bright red, sweating profusely and biting into the ball as though attempting to amass all of her power and energy to some focal-point in her being that will somehow summons God down to the scene and expel this evil force from the room.

  He took his tongue and licked beads of sweat from her face and as he started to moan and savour her taste he began stabbed into her genitalia.

  Stab!

  Stab!

  Stab!

  He smiled at her wild, shuddering reaction.

  Just three times – he didn’t want her to die yet – this was just a taste…

  It was a ferocious scene of brutal mutilation and an explosion of flesh, blood and slaughtered sex. Her entire body convulsed like nothing even he had ever seen in all his days of torturing women. He often enjoyed a ‘jig’ and a ‘dance’ as he liked to call it, but, this girl was quite the performer.

  After dropping the blood-laced shank of steel to the floor he allowed his frenzy of evil to fizzle and decay. He stepped back and looked at his handy-work as she hung from the ropes and her consciousness began to fade. She was a river of fluids in a land of honey and pain, juices not of her fevered sexual appetites – no – just warmly and thickly coated in waves of her own blood.