The Briefcase

The Briefcase

z119z

© by the author 2016

The “whip” was a length of copper wire sheathed in black plastic, slightly more than an eighth of an inch in diameter and about four feet long. He had taped the ends with black electrical tape and then tied a knot in one end to make it easier to swing. Wound into a coil, it had fit neatly into one of the pockets of his briefcase. He had cut it off an old pair of noise-cancelling earphones when the cloth covering over the earpieces had begun to fray. He liked the irony of that. To judge from the reactions of the man tied to the bed, it had lost its noise-cancelling properties. The man had begun screaming with the first stroke.

He liked the marks the cord left and the patterns he could create with it. Tonight, he had used the cord to produce a visual record of red welts spaced a half-inch apart from the man’s shoulders down his back, across his buttocks and the backs of his thighs, ending just above the knees. The man had such white flesh—it looked as if he hadn’t exposed his skin to the sun for years. Perhaps he was afraid of skin cancer. He silently thanked the man for cooperating in his efforts to produce a work of art on a living canvas. The red stripes against the stark white flesh were magnificent. He snapped several pictures with his phone.

He had found the bar online months earlier when he was scouting possible pick-up locations. According to the bar’s website, it was a “gay-friendly” drinking spot catering to the needs of professionals in the financial district. It was quiet and sedate. It boasted that it had no television sets on the premises. “Perfect for meetings or for unwinding at the end of a busy day.” The prices it charged for its “extensive selection of single malts, craft beers, and vintage wines by the glass” were high enough to discourage casual drinkers. To judge from the pictures, the bar catered to gay men who preferred an upscale men’s club atmosphere over the usual meat market. The neatly groomed barmen and waiters wore dark red vests over white shirts and sported red bowties. The chairs around the small tables were covered in dark maroon leather. The floor was carpeted. He was willing to bet that no one spoke above a murmur and that the loudest noise was the clink of an ice cube against a heavy glass.

He had taken care to look the part of someone who belonged in such a place. His chestnut-brown hair was neatly trimmed. He had shaved carefully that morning. He didn’t have a beard or a mustache, and he didn’t sport a fashionable three-days’ growth of stubble. He had dressed to blend in. The well-cut charcoal-gray suit, the white shirt, the polished shoes, the discreet tie—and the black briefcase. Just another businessman stopping off for a drink before heading home after a long day at the office.

The man had glanced up as he approached the bar, and he had aimed a vague smile in the man’s direction as he sat down. A vacant stool separated them—close enough to start a conversation, but not so close as to threaten the other man’s space. The etiquette of the casual bar pick-up was being observed. When the bartender approached, he asked for a Macpherson’s, neat, with water back. He kept his voice low and well modulated. His tone and his manner conveyed money, education, taste.

In the mirror behind the bar, he saw the man turn his head slightly and eye him surreptitiously. The man continued to watch him as he rolled his shoulders slightly as if relieving the stress and kinks of sitting at a desk all day. It didn’t hurt that he had wide shoulders that stretched the fabric of his suit. The target liked what he was seeing, but he was trying to be discreet. He didn’t want to attract attention—yet—and he wanted deniability if his gaze proved unwelcome.

When the bartender put the heavy tumbler of malt whisky in front of him, he stretched out his right hand to touch the glass. He had good-looking hands—masculine, strong, well-shaped, expensively manicured. He let his fingers linger on the glass for a few seconds before he picked it up and sipped appreciatively. He briefly closed his eyes while he ran the amber liquid across the surface of his tongue. When he sat the glass down, he smiled to himself and allowed his eyes to glide across the mirrored images behind the bar until they met those of the man seated next to him. He nodded at the man’s reflection. “It’s been one of those days,” he said. He smiled tentatively, in a bid for empathy. He knew, he was implying, that the man would understand and appreciate another hard-working businessman’s need to relax at the end of the day.

The man smiled back. He introduced himself as Jeff. “Michael,” he had said in return as they shook hands. He hadn’t used that name for three years—not since that time in Boston. If Jeff went to the police (not that his partners ever did), they wouldn’t connect him with that Michael. In any case, that partner—he couldn’t remember the man’s name—hadn’t gone to the police. There wouldn’t be a record. On the other hand, there were plenty of Michaels in the police data base with a record of “bodily assault with intent to do harm.” Enough names to keep the cops busy chasing the wrong person, if it came to that. But he didn’t think it would.

He hadn’t rushed things—they had finished their drinks slowly and talked about the ongoing political campaigns, the weather, the market. It hadn’t taken long to make Jeff his, although Jeff may not have realized that himself. He had telegraphed to Jeff that he might be interested in something more than a desultory conversation of no particular interest to either of them. He hadn’t done anything overt—nothing more than a guarded visual inventorying of Jeff’s body followed by a boyish grin and a rueful shrug of his shoulders when he let Jeff catch him doing it, and shortly later a manly squeeze of Jeff’s upper arm to emphasize a point that he was making and a series of candid, intent looks that locked Jeff’s eyes on his memorable green eyes and held them fast in a grip of sincerity. Jeff would remember those eyes.

He let Jeff make the first explicit moves, but he was careful not to give in too readily to Jeff’s discreetly worded overtures. He even managed to look grateful when Jeff  suggested that they go back to his place.

Jeff’s “place” turned out to be a narrow, three-story brownstone divided into two units. He owned the top two floors; the other tenant had the basement and the ground floor. Jeff had poured glasses of red wine. “All I have,” Jeff had explained as he handed “Michael” his glass. “Give me a minute, will you? I want to get out of these clothes. Make yourself comfortable.” Jeff had waved a vague hand at the room before he disappeared up the steep narrow flight of stairs to the upper story. There were sounds of drawers being pulled out and what he guessed to be closet doors being slid open and shut.

He took off his suit coat and draped it over the back of an easy chair. He loosened his tie enough so that he could slip it over his head without untying it and then undid the top button of his shirt. He considered taking his shoes off, but decided against it. Best not to make himself too comfortable. He transferred the auto-injector pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket to the right-hand pocket of his trousers. It would take him only a second to push the cap off when he needed it.

From upstairs came the muffled sounds of a toilet flushing and water running. A few seconds later, Jeff returned, wearing an old pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. He was barefooted. Jeff obviously spent time at the gym. He was trim, nicely muscled but not overbuilt. That was all to the good. Big guys could be a problem to maneuver. Someone Jeff’s size was much easier to handle.

Jeff sat down beside him on the sofa, bending the near leg at the knee and drawing it up until it rested on the sofa a fraction of an inch away from his thigh. Jeff touched the rim of his glass against the one he was holding and said “Cheers.”

He raised the glass to his lips and pretended to sip as Jeff swallowed a mouthful. He set the glass down on the coffee table and gestured toward a life-size photograph of a nude male torso hanging on the wall opposite them. The figure’s head was hidden in deep shadows. “Is that you?”

“I wish. He is beautiful, isn’t he? I have a different picture of the same model upstairs, in my bedroom, if you want to see it.” The invitation hung in the air.

He smiled at Jeff. “Later. There’s no need to rush, is there? We’ll get there eventually.” He touched Jeff’s hand, just a light stroke for now. Jeff read it as a promise. He looked slowly around the apartment.  “I like your place. Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

They carried their glasses of wine with them as Jeff showed him around, pointing out the improvements he had made in the place. He was careful not to touch anything. So far the only item with his fingerprints was the wine glass, and he would wash that before he left. Jeff had encouraged him to drink up when he refilled his glass, but he had excused himself. “I’ve had enough for now. I’ll have a glass later—afterwards.” 

Jeff liked the sound of “afterwards.” He also liked the sound of “I believe you promised to show me your bedroom. I am looking forward to seeing a nude male.”

Jeff poured himself a third glass of wine before leading him to the upper floor and the bedroom. A king-size bed covered by a puffy white duvet faced the mirrored sliding doors of a closet. He noted with approval that the bed’s head- and footboards consisted of vertical metal rods capped by sturdy lengths of metal piping. That would prove useful later. The bed took up most of the room, but there was space to walk on both sides. “Nice,” he had said. “Very cosy. And private.”

Jeff giggled. He was beginning to show the effects of all the alcohol he had drunk. He was practically simpering. “It’s one reason I bought this place. I wanted privacy—at least in the bedroom. Nothing that goes on up here can be heard in the downstairs unit.”

He smiled inwardly at the thought of how thoroughly that assertion would be tested over the next several hours. “Hmmm,” he said. “Nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing!” Jeff replied. This time he smirked and ran his tongue suggestively across his lips.

Two could play that game. “Jeffrey, what have you been doing up here?” He kept his voice playful and flirtatious. “How noisy do you get? What do I have to look forward to? Moaning? Screaming?” He put his arms around Jeff’s chest, drawing him into a tight embrace. He ran his hands across Jeff’s back and then kissed him lightly on the lips.

“That depends on what you have planned for me.”

“Oh, maybe a little of both—if you’re up for it.”

“Just a little?”

“Shall we find out?” He drew back a bit. “Let’s get you out of these first.” He lifted the bottom of Jeff’s T and began lifting it slowly upward. Jeff instinctively moved to help him take it off.

“No,” he said. “Let me undress you. I like to do that. Slowly—one piece of clothing at a time. Let me savor each bit that’s revealed. It’s like unwrapping a present.” He used that line often. It gave him a reason to be in charge and helped accustom his partners to his controlling the situation. He made sure that the docile behavior he wanted was rewarded. His targets were only too happy to go along as he explored their bodies. He had skilled hands, hands that could excite and arouse. He was equally adept at using his mouth.

When he raised the T high enough to expose Jeff’s nipples, he leaned forward and began kissing them. Jeff gasped with pleasure as his wet tongue slid across first one and then the other. When Jeff tried to embrace him, he gently lifted Jeff’s arms, bending them at the elbow, and bringing Jeff’s hands together behind his own neck. Jeff eagerly accepted the role of passive. adored object. He laced his fingers together, pushing his chest forward and exposing it to the attentions of “Michael’s” fingers and mouth.

Jeff was letting him take charge. He was cooperating. Most men did. Most men were lazy. They liked being the recipients of his attentions. They liked to be made love to. Even the ones who thought of themselves as tops wanted to be the focus of their partner’s desire. They thought of it as “worship.” Whatever. It didn’t matter what label they attached to it as long as it gave him an opening.

He had judged Jeff correctly. The conversation in the bar had revealed a man anxious to make himself agreeable. Jeff would take let him take the lead. “Let me see your back,” he said. He maneuvered Jeff’s body around so that it faced away from the mirror. He pulled the front of the T shirt up and over Jeff’s head, momentarily letting it cover Jeff’s face as he wrapped his left arm around Jeff’s chest and fingered Jeff’s right nipple. He nuzzled Jeff’s neck as he undid the button on Jeff’s jeans and unzipped them with his right hand. He pushed the jeans down until they fell to Jeff’s ankles. Jeff wasn’t wearing underwear. That made the next step easier.

He slid his right hand into his pocket and pulled out the auto-injector. It was intended for veterinary use with large animals. The sedative was fast acting and the needle very sharp. As he pushed it against Jeff’s buttock, he pinched Jeff’s nipple. The shock masked the swift plunge of the needle into his flesh. Jeff was oblivious to the sedative coursing through his body.

“Hey, not so hard. That hurt.”

“Oh, sorry. Got carried away.” He began kissing Jeff vigorously to make up for his lapse. He pulled Jeff backward and lowered his body onto the bed. Jeff fumbled at the duvet trying to shove it aside. His movements were already becoming sluggish and uncoordinated. He lifted Jeff’s legs and rolled him over onto his stomach. The drug rarely took more than half a minute to take full effect. Jeff had drunk enough that it worked even faster. He was out within ten seconds.

He went downstairs and retrieved his briefcase. He pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on before returning upstairs. Another useful aspect of the sedative was that it wore off quickly. He had around twenty minutes to get Jeff ready. That would be more than enough time. He moved Jeff’s now-inert body first to one side of the bed and then the other as he pulled the duvet and the top sheet from under him. The fitted bottom sheet made a much nicer canvas. It stretched tautly across the mattress. He would have preferred that it be white rather than the light blue it was, but he didn’t have time to locate Jeff’s linen closet on the off chance that he had a set of white sheets he could substitute. He could live with blue. He removed the pillows from the bed so that he had a flat work surface. He stuffed the duvet and pillows into the closet and closed the door. He liked order. Clutter would detract from the performance piece he was about to create.

He stretched Jeff’s arms and legs out to their full extent. He removed the four pieces of rope from his briefcase. It took him only a few seconds to wind each rope around an ankle or wrist and tie it tightly to a bedpost. He liked to begin with his partners spread-eagled. It left them so open. He also liked to use rope rather than leather cuffs. Ropes left marks. For a few days, Jeff’s ankles and wrists would bear witness to the cords that now secured them.

Jeff would see the marks later, but there wasn’t anything in the remainder of their time together that Jeff needed to witness. He wrapped several layers of duct tape over Jeff’s eyes and around his head, molding the tape around the nose and under the eyes to form a tight seal. He made sure that the tape passed over Jeff’s ears. It wouldn’t prevent Jeff from hearing but it would muffle sounds and increase Jeff’s sense of isolation and helplessness.

Nor was it necessary for Jeff to speak. He pried Jeff’s jaws apart and stuffed the red ball gag behind his front teeth. He liked the image. It reminded him of a roast pig with an apple in its mouth. He buckled the gag so tightly in the back that the straps dug into the flesh of Jeff’s cheeks. That would add to Jeff’s discomfort when he woke up.  Plus, the gag would keep Jeff’s screams from being heard. He had no desire to discover whether Jeff’s belief in the privacy of his bedroom was justified. Finally, he turned on all the lights in the bedroom. Unfortunately Jeff favored low lighting in the bedroom. Stronger lighting would have been better for his pictorial record, but he would have to make do.

He had about ten minutes left before Jeff would recover enough consciousness to appreciate what was happening to him. He used the time to go downstairs and clean up. He washed his wineglass and put it back on the shelf. Jeff had a set of twelve glasses, and he put the one he had used at the back. He wiped every surface he might have touched and made sure that he would be able to retrieve his suit coat and tie quickly. He could leave in a matter of seconds. He found the remote and switched on the TV. The noise would provide cover.

He took a few pictures of Jeff’s helpless body to pass the time while the sedative wore off. He would wait until Jeff was awake enough to realize his predicament before he began. It always took a few moments after they began waking for his partners to realize that they were bound hand and foot, that the reason they couldn’t see was that they were blindfolded, and that the only sounds they could force from their throats were meaningless grunts. Jeff was no different. His initial response was to attempt to roll over and sit up. It took him several tugs on the ropes to comprehend the restrictions on his movements. He lifted his head and turned it from side to side, trying to see around the tape. His jaw and tongue worked convulsively as he endeavored to force the gag from behind his front teeth and out of his mouth.

Perhaps Jeff could imagine what he looked like. He had to have seen pictures of men in a similar predicament. Most guys knew what it meant to be tied face down, spread-eagled, unable to see, and with a gag forcing their jaws painfully apart. And most guys panicked at this point. Jeff was no different. He began struggling violently against the ropes, trying to raise himself up and making muffled, inarticulate noises. Jeff had been right about that—no one would hear what went on in his bedroom that night. Well, no one but the two of them.

He liked to watch them thrash about. He never said anything. He stood absolutely still. For all Jeff knew, he was tied up and alone. Perhaps he was thinking that he had been robbed. Maybe he was wondering how long it would be before anyone missed him, how many days he would have to wait until some colleague from work grew worried enough to check up on him. Maybe no one would care, and he wouldn’t be discovered until his downstairs neighbor noticed his mail going uncollected and smelled the stench coming from upstairs and called the police to break the door down.

He never said anything. He didn’t have a need to explain himself or boast or taunt his partners. He wasn’t there to make conversation, at least not verbal conversation. He had other ways of making his point. He let his tools doing his talking. He always began with a whipping. It was effective and efficient. He didn’t bother with a gradual buildup, a slow progression that allowed his partner’s endorphins to kick in and help him endure the pain. No, he wanted each lash of the whip to generate a sudden, shocked screech followed by a long wail of agony. He swung the whip as hard as he could. It blasted without warning across the top of Jeff’s shoulders. Jeff’s reaction was all that he hoped for. The bed shook as he shuddered convulsively and jerked on all four ropes at once, flung his head back, and howled. The red welt left by the lash was perfect.

He paused for a minute or two between each stroke, letting Jeff think—hope—that maybe each blow had been the last. Jeff was like most of his partners. At first he thrashed about as his body absorbed the echoes of the pain. The gag muffled his screams and frustrated his attempts to beg for mercy, but he kept raising his head and turning it from side to side in his efforts to speak. He had to wait each time for Jeff to subside and present a quiet surface. He wanted the welts to be a half-inch or so apart down the length of Jeff’s back and across his buttocks and the backs of his thighs. Of course, perfection wasn’t possible. Jeff was crying and moving about too much to allow that. Some of the welts were too close together. He could have secured Jeff more tightly, but the restraints needed to do that would have covered too much of Jeff’s body and prevented him from creating the pattern he wanted. Once he had administered the whipping while the partner was unconscious. The pattern had been perfect, but he missed the screams. One had to decide what mattered most, and for him, the partner’s consciousness of just how much pain he was inflicting added to his enjoyment.

Jeff’s struggles lost vigor around the tenth blow. That often happened. Each blow still caused the body to tense up and arch, but something happened. Sooner or later, the partner’s mind or body begin to give up, to surrender to the pain. Some of them even appeared to start to enjoy it. It was a mystery. If his partners had been voluntary, he might have discussed it with them. But perhaps not. He wasn’t curious about their views of what was happening to them, and that would inevitably be their focus—themselves. No, he was interested in learning why the body and mind reacted as they did so that he could exploit it. He would have liked to know how to delay the acceptance, the surrender, and how to prolong that initial agony, maybe even to make it grow. By the end, Jeff was crying. He couldn’t see the tears because of the blindfold, but Jeff was sniveling. The gag made swallowing difficult, and the sheet around his mouth grew wet with spit and snot.

The butt plug wasn’t large. It was big enough for Jeff to protest when he thrust it in, but Jeff had probably had bigger things up his ass. He finished the last stroke with the electrical cord and then, while Jeff was waiting for the next blow, he quickly lubed the working end of the plug and stuffed it in. Jeff had no warning that he was about to be invaded. Enough time had passed that he had tensed his body in preparation for the next blow from the lash. Jeff’s clenched buttocks which made it difficult to insert the plug, especially since his fingers were slippery from the lube. He had to push the ass cheeks apart and ram the plug in. It was a new pain, a different sort. Jeff gave a pig-like squeal, and his head jerked up and back. A long groan erupted from Jeff’s chest—whether from the pain or the terror provoked by this new assault he couldn’t tell. It was probably both.

The latex gloves he was wearing were covered with lube. He peeled them off and threw them into the baggie he kept in his briefcase just for such trash. He put on another pair before continuing. He attached the wires leading from the butt plug to the electrical transformer. It took him a moment to locate a wall socket. Jeff’s place dated from an era when people hadn’t had as many electrical goods and didn’t need a socket every few feet. Luckily the transformer had a long cord. He made a mental note to add an extension cord to his briefcase in case he found himself in a place without a near enough socket.

He set the dial at the lowest setting. He had tried the same model of plug once on himself. The electrical shock delivered at the minimum setting didn’t hurt. At least he didn’t think so. But he had known the electrical pulse was coming. It was a surprise for Jeff. His body lifted up by the hips when the shock came. A long, drawn out wail came from this throat. It sounded like he might have been shouting “no.”

He took his time increasing the frequency and intensity of the shocks. At first he got the reaction he wanted. Jeff was screaming behind the gag and begging. There weren’t any words, but he could tell Jeff was begging. But then Jeff just gave up. He surrendered. He barely even bothered to moan or protest the flare of pain that surged through his groin with each pulse of electricity. That was the sign he had been waiting for.

He undid the ropes from the bottom bedposts. Grasping Jeff by the ankles, he flipped him over, causing Jeff to screech in pain as his arms crossed above his head. He quickly retied the ropes securing Jeff’s ankles. He untied each wrist rope separately and rebound the arms. Jeff didn’t even struggle and try to take advantage of the momentary freeing of his limbs. He just let his legs and arms be moved into their new positions. Jeff’s chest was heaving as he tried to breathe over the shock of the stripes of raw flesh on his backside rubbing against the sheet.

Jeff barely even flinched as he tightened the metal ring just beneath the head of his cock. The pain was keeping Jeff’s cock soft and deflated, and he was able to fasten the ring around the cock so tightly that the flesh bulged out on either side. Nor did Jeff react when he fastened a second ring so that it encircled the base of Jeff’s cock and ball sack. Jeff’s mind was otherwise occupied. The half-inch metal ring pushed the balls up into a tight sphere and held the penis erect. It was tight enough to constrict the blood supply, and Jeff’s cock began to harden. Jeff noticed the unyielding ring around his cock then, and he began to plead again. It sounded as if he were trying to say “please stop” over and over, but all that came out  was something like “eee aw.”

Jeff was thrashing about so much that he couldn’t attach the alligator clamps to his nipples. He slapped Jeff’s face and hissed, “Lie still.” But Jeff wasn’t paying attention. He grabbed the electrical box and turning the setting to the highest level. Jeff’s body convulsed in pain and practically levitated off the mattress. When the pulse stopped, he dropped back on the bed. Mercifully the pain had been enough of a shock that Jeff remained still long enough for him to clamp the nipples. But he was annoyed by Jeff’s inconsiderate lack of cooperation, and he made no effort to ease them on. He opened them to the full extent, positioned them over the tips of the nipples, and then released them. Jeff screamed again.

“That’s what happens when you don’t behave. Next time I tell you to lie still, lie still.”

He attached the wires leading from the clamps and the rings around Jeff’s cock and balls to the transformer. Again he began at the lowest sitting and gradually increased the frequency and intensity of the shocks. Jeff wasn’t going anywhere now. He could take his time.

Each shock brought a new wave of moans. As the intensity increased, Jeff’s muscles began shaking involuntarily. As the pulses grew stronger, his arms and legs began to spasm, and his hips thrust into the air. His cock grew hard and began to throb. Even in the dim light, Jeff’s body gleamed from the film of sweat, and lines of drool seeped from the corners of his mouth.

Jeff must either have been in so much pain that his body wasn’t responding as most men’s did or had recently ejaculated. It took almost twenty minutes of shocks at the maximum setting before his cock hardened and the involuntary pelvic thrusts began. He loved that. He loved controlling his partners so much that their bodies betrayed them and he could force them to have an orgasm. Jeff’s cock began to leak pre-cum, and his cock jerked erect as each pulse of electricity charged through his body. But Jeff wasn’t enjoying his erection. That wasn’t part of the plan. His erect cock was a tower of glowing agony.

Jeff’s entire body convulsed when he came. The first three jets of cum shot a yard into the air. Jeff’s balls churned out another three spurts, before the streams of cum subsided into an oozing stream. He recorded all of it with his phone and snapped several shots of Jeff’s body while the cum was still white and gleaming.

He turned the transformer off and detached the wires. He unplugged the cord, wound it around the unit, and returned the transformer to his briefcase. He took an auto-injector pen from his briefcase and stuck it in Jeff. Jeff was so far gone that he didn’t even register the prick of the needle on his thigh. This sedative worked as quickly as the first one, but it lasted longer. Jeff would be out for hours.

He gave Jeff five minutes to make sure the sedative was working and then undid the ropes around the bedposts. He left the ropes attached to the wrists and ankles. When Jeff woke up, he could untie them himself. He also left all the attachments. The tape blindfold and the gag were saturated with Jeff’s DNA, as were undoubtedly the plug, the clamps, and the rings. He also left the whip he had made from the electrical cord. Jeff could have all of them—souvenirs of his ordeal. Nothing he was taking with him had touched Jeff. He would buy or make replacements for the stuff he left. He had been careful to handle everything with gloves before stowing each item in his briefcase. There was no trace evidence on them that would lead to him. None of the items cost much. He regarded them as acceptable losses. He bought what he needed before each trip and was careful to shop in different locations. The electrical cord had been an inspired addition to his briefcase. He would use that particular device again. It would be easy to make another. Even his local drugstore carried similar cords in its small electronics section.

He doublechecked to make sure that he was taking the two used auto-injector pens. Unfortunately those could be traced to him—purchases of sedatives were recorded. But he felt that was a minor risk. He had a legitimate reason for buying them, and in the unlikely event that anyone tested Jeff’s blood for drugs, the sedatives he had used were commonly available, and he was simply one of thousands of people with access to them.

All in all, it had been a good night’s work. He had a new set of memories, and a new set of pictures and videos to add to his collection. Unfortunately some of the images would be darker than he preferred, but they were clear enough to provide him with the stimulation he needed. He would have to find some source of lighting he could bring with him. He needed to devote some research and thought to that problem. So many people didn’t have adequate lighting in their homes. It was a nuisance. People could be so inconsiderate.

He felt calmer now. His cravings would subside for a few weeks. He would have plenty of time to plan his next trip before the need grew in him again and he had to venture out. Plenty of time to locate more sources of potential partners for his next artwork.

White-collar professionals were the best. Lawyers, doctors, businessmen—they were so vulnerable. It was so easy to con them. They were so quick to trust another member of their tribe, someone who looked like them, someone who appeared to share their outlook and values. They never suspected just who it was that they were inviting into their lives. They couldn’t imagine themselves as “victims” of violence. Victimization wasn’t part of their life style. It wasn’t on their bucket lists. Violence overwhelmed them. They surrendered so completely; they never fought back. They hadn’t steeled themselves to endure pain. They screamed and sobbed and begged and pleaded. He liked screaming and sobbing and begging and pleading.

An added bonus was that they rarely revealed what had happened to them. They were too embarrassed to confess to the cops or even a doctor that their dick had led them to invite a predator into their home, that secure haven that would shortly become the scene of the worst hours of their lives. No, they buried what had happened to them deep in the vaults of their minds. Or tried to. But forgetting wasn’t an option. Those hours with him were too corrosive to erase so easily from the old memory banks. He made sure of that. No, his visits were etched deep into their minds.

Did they have nightmares about him? Or did their evening with him become the stuff of fantasy, to be revisited as they jerked off to their memories? Perhaps he had introduced them to the pleasures of pain. Did they begin to seek out others like him? Did they look back later and thank him for the initiation? Did vanilla sex no longer cut it with them?

Contamination and infection. Those were his gifts to his partners. He contaminated the spaces in which they lived. They would never again be able to feel secure inside their homes. And he infected their minds, poisoning them with memories and desires. They would never again be certain that they were in control of their urges, that their psyche’s needs and demands would not betray them. That was a lesson everyone should learn.

He took a final look around Jeff’s bedroom to make sure that he hadn’t overlooked anything that might be used as evidence. When he was satisfied, he switched off the lights and went downstairs. He put his tie and coat back on and switched off the television and the lights. A moment later he stood outside Jeff’s house. The street was deserted. He stripped off the gloves and stuck them in a pocket. He would discard them later. He walked three blocks over and hailed a cab. He had it drop him off two blocks away from the twenty-four hour parking garage where he had left his car. As he walked toward the entrance, he paused briefly as if to rub one of his eyes and eased the green contact lens out. He dropped it on the sidewalk and ground it into dust beneath his shoe. He discarded the second lens a hundred feet away. In the privacy of his car, he removed the wig he had been wearing and cut it into two-inch squares, tossing each piece into the trash bag with the gloves and injector pens on the passenger seat.  When he got on the interstate, he would discard the trash a piece at a time when he was confident he wouldn’t be seen. No one would connect such bits of roadside litter.

Jeff wouldn’t have recognized the man who drove off.