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.
