Phreaked Out

by POW and Ferdinando Neri

The following story is a purely fictional account. Any relationship to any real person living or dead is coincidental. The narrative deals with the non-consensual torture and death of a human being, and is intended for mature readers who wish to view such material and for whom it is legal to do so. The authors in no way condone or promote such acts in real life.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Ferdinando Neri and by POW. For spam protection, animal names have been added to the authors' addresses - remove it to get their actual addresses. (ferdinandoneri zebra at yahoo dot it) and (POWauthor zebra at yahoo dot com). This story may be freely copied and distributed so long as it is copied in its entirety, including the author credit information and disclaimer. The authors welcome feedback.

It takes a long time to prepare a truly satisfying plan. My latest took me over two years to conceive and execute, but it was oh, so worth the time and effort. There is only one teensy little thing I would have done differently...

It began in a gay nightclub that I used to visit on occasion. I was leaning on the bar, watching the men dancing and cruising one another. The place was crowded and a knot of people began to form around me. Elbows and shoulders jostled and nudged and inevitably, some guy got bumped a little too hard and spilled his drink all over my shirt.

Now, I don't mind that so much. Accidents happen, after all. It was the guy's behavior afterward that really ticked me off. He offered no apology, but instead shoved me aside to demand a refill from the bartender. From the way he was dressed and the way he carried himself, it was clear that he thought himself a total top, the king of the hill, and therefore exempt from the rules of common courtesy that the rest of us mere mortals must follow.

I said nothing. Direct confrontation is not my style. Instead, I set about thinking of the best way to get my revenge... a revenge that would be served very, very cold.

A few discreet inquiries gave me his name. From there, it was fairly easy to track down where he lived, where he worked, what kind of car he drove, all sorts of details about his life. After that, I began to think of how I might best use what I had learned about him to bring him down.

Now, you may think that the punishment I meted out far exceeded the crime he committed. And you would be right. But, truth be told, the spilled drink was just a pretext. I was in that nightclub looking for someone to become my next victim. I really didn't have anyone special in mind, no more than a cop cares which particular speeder he pulls over. Gary just happened to be the unlucky winner.

A year later, I bought and moved into the condo-apartment next to Gary's. He, of course, did not remember the circumstances we had met under before, had no idea that we had already met, in fact. I introduced myself to him and to all the other neighbors on the floor, but didn't go out of my way to become friendly with him or any of them. We nodded hello when we passed in the hallway and that was all.

Over the next few months, I set up the rest of the tools I would need. First, I set up my phreaking equipment. Van Eck phreaking, if you haven't heard of it, is a nifty bit of spy technology that lets you wirelessly snoop on a nearby computer. Every computer screen, even the newer LCD models, leaks small amounts of radiation. With the proper tools, you can intercept that radiation - if you're close enough to the source - and reassemble it into an image of what's on the screen. It's not easy to do, but with patience it is possible.

Patience is one trait I possess in abundance.

It took me a while to get my setup working correctly. Once I did, I was able to watch everything that Gary did on his computer. Most of it was trivial, of course, and very boring to watch. He mostly used his computer to pay his utility bills, play games, and surf porn sites. Boredom doesn't bother me, though, if it's for a greater cause. My patience eventually paid off, because I learned that every once in a while, he would hook up with a guy online and go out to meet him. That provided the opening I wanted.

The other thing I did during this time was gain access to Gary's car. That was another boring but necessary task. I made a little variable-frequency radio transmitter and spent some long Sunday afternoons aiming the thing out the window. Press the button, wait, tweak the frequency a tiny nudge, press the button again. Eventually, I found the frequency that controlled the locks on Gary's Lexus SUV. I tried locking and unlocking it a few times to make sure I had the setting right, then put the thing aside.

Some months after that, I used my little tool to go out very early one Tuesday morning and install a little gizmo in his car. Nothing dangerous, just a little something to buy me a little time when I needed it.

And finally, two years after he spilled a drink on my shirt, I was ready to get my revenge on Gary.

---

It's quite hot. Better to take a shower. I have plenty of time. Gary will wait for me at nine, it's only eight. I undress, but the phone rings. It's my mother, from Italy. She is worried because I never call her. She wants to know about my job, but I hate to discuss my life with my mother. I try to avoid answering, but she is so nagging! When finally I am able to stop her, I am completely pissed.

I sit on the armchair and I begin to brood on my life here in the States. I hate brooding, but I cannot avoid doing so.

My father came to the States when I was seven. My parents told me that he had found a very good job, so he had to go and stay in America for a little while. I didn't realize, I was only a child, but it was obvious: my father and my mother couldn't go on together anymore. They were parting.

I missed my father, who for some years came back occasionally, only once a year, and later didn't come at all. I was twelve when they divorced, but then I had understood. My mother married again. My stepfather was kind to me and for some years everything was OK. Then the problems began. I couldn't stand him anymore, I was always answering him back, I was criticizing. I became stubborn. Now I tell myself the simple truth: I liked him, even if I didn't understand.

I had never been a good scholar, but things began to get worse and worse, my results went down and down. I failed my exams.

I was just beginning to have my first experiences with some comrades. Just some masturbation, nothing more. Then one of my teachers caught me and one of my friends in the changing-room, at school.

We lived in a little town in the south of Italy, where people are narrow-minded. It was a scandal. They laughed at us, they loathed us. My friend's family sent him in another town.

I refused to go out of the house, even to go out of my room. My mother was always crying, my stepfather scolded me, they wanted to send me to a psychiatrist. I refused. I was thinking to kill myself. I couldn't live there anymore. So I told my mother I wanted to go to America, where my father lived, to stay with him and to start afresh. My mother didn't agree, but my stepfather thought it was the only way to stop the scandal. So my mother told my father I would join him in the States. I was eighteen.

I don't think that my father was so happy to have me in his house: he had two children and my stepmother didn't like me. My father wanted me to study, but my English was very poor (it is yet very poor) and the school was a complete flop. Life with my father and his wife soon became impossible, I know I made myself hated. I had to leave home and to find a job. I found it, my beautiful job, at a gas station. Boredom, boredom, boredom.

I spend my time working, in the gym and surfing in Internet. No friends, no connections. When people see me, they think I am a chicano. Many like my body, strong, muscular, young. I can fuck as often as I like, but I am completely alone.

Shit! I am in a really bad mood now. In half an hour I should meet this man, Gary, and I am not going to enjoy it. I take the shower and I try to drive away the evil thoughts. I try to remember when I discovered Greasetank. It was a well in the desert! I read the stories, I looked at the images. I imagined myself as one of the men involved in these stories, killing and killed. It was great. I was the bounty hunter killed by an out-of-law, his belly full of lead. I was the soldier tortured and shot by an enemy officer.

I remember a story in which a German officer is hanged by the American soldiers, then they cut his cock and his balls. It made me horny every time I read it, it makes me horny even now. I imagined I was the American lieutenant sawing his German counterpart's genitals. And then I imagined that the following day the enemy made did the same to me, that they raped and humiliated me, that I was still living when they castrated me and could feel the knife cutting my flesh. I often think to these scenes when I fuck. They give a good taste to a plain fucking.

Good. I am horny, now, as I should be. I dress and I go out.

---

The exact timing was up to him, of course. I had no idea when he would next choose to go online and hook up with someone. So I made sure all my preparations were in place, then sat down to wait.

It didn't take long. A mere three weeks later, Gary came home from work one Friday night, fired up his computer, and began trolling for a date. I watched through my phreak screen as he sifted through the local gay chatrooms for some twink to blow a load with. He found a taker after only twenty minutes and arranged to meet him at a street corner a couple of miles from here later in the evening.

As soon as his plans looked solid, I used my remote control to fire up the gizmo I had installed in Gary's car. An electric motor began to run under the hood, draining lots of power from the battery but accomplishing nothing. In less than two hours, the battery would be so depleted that it would be unable to start the engine. Then I ran out to do some quick last-minute setup at my destination.

Twenty minutes later, I was back. I could hear Gary through the walls as he ate his dinner and got ready to go out. About ten minutes before his scheduled rendezvous, I heard him head out the door to the parking lot. I shut down the gizmo in his car, waited a minute, then went out to my own car, parked at the other end of the lot. By the time I drove past him, he was just discovering that his battery had died and was realizing that he was going to be a teensy bit late for his date.

The punk was waiting exactly where he said he would be. He looked just like the photo he had sent Gary: black-haired, perpetually-shadowed face, maybe 25 to 30 years old. Of course, I look nothing like the photo Gary had sent to him, which is why I had put on a hat and wraparound sunglasses. I pulled my car over and called his name. He hopped into the front seat and we were off. The plan was that they would go back to Gary's place, so that's where I told him we were headed. I had wondered why Gary would waste his own time going to pick up his boink-buddy instead of just telling him to come straight to his place if that was where they were going to end up anyway. Then it occurred to me that it gave Gary an easy out - if he didn't like his date's looks, he could just drive on by, not bothering to stop. That was exactly the way Gary would think, which further convinced me that the arrogant prick deserved everything that was coming to him.	I am at the corner, near McDonalds. Gary should arrive. A car stops. The man doesn't seem like the pic Gary sent me. "You are Fred, aren't you?" I nod. My name is Ferdinando, but nobody understands it, so I use this short form, Fred. "And so you are Gary. Happy to meet you." I sit next to him. I don't say anything else. I prefer not to speak. When they hear my foreign accent and my poor English, many men become suspicious, perhaps they think that I want to rob them, to cheat them. Foreigners are all thieves and cutthroats. When I am naked, nobody draws back. We can speak later, if we feel like it. I look at him. Perhaps it's his hat. Or the glasses. But he doesn't seem the man of the pic. No problems. Two or three times I met people who had sent a pic of another man, younger or more handsome or better hung. Such a stupid thing to do!
Neither of us made much conversation as we drove. I brought him to a mostly commercial neighborhood, lively enough in the daytime but pretty much deserted at this hour. I told him that my place was on the third floor of a certain building. The bottom floor was a lighting store (closed), the second was vacant, and the third was actually a dance studio, also currently closed. He looked like he was starting to get a little nervous, but when my key opened up the door, he followed me inside without a question.	"Here we are!" I look at the building. There is a store, closed, at the first floor. It seems empty. I don't know why, but I don't like the place, in this area, completely deserted. Stupid fantasy. Gary opens the door and I follow him.
That's when I slammed my elbow into his gut and he doubled over retching.	Argh! He hits me and I feel a strong pain in my belly. I double, too stunned to react. I realise that this son of bitch has handcuffed me! He forces me to rise. I am afraid, my belly is aching.
I slipped the handcuffs out of my pocket and wrestled them onto his wrists in less than fifteen seconds, locking his hands behind his back. Then I grabbed him by the hair and yanked him to his feet. He began to shout as I frog-marched him up the stairs, so I wrapped my arm around his throat and squeezed just tightly enough to lower the volume of his protests. It didn't diminish his struggles any.	I shout, I need help. I hope someone will hear me. He squeezes my neck. I can hardly breath. I try to free myself... I am strong, but with my hands behind my back and his arm around my neck, I cannot struggle. The stairs seem endless. He drags me on and on. I am choking. My lungs attempt to regain the air they need.
We worked our way up to the dance studio on the third floor. It was a terrific space for my evening's entertainment - wide open, with a nice high ceiling, wooden floors, and no windows, just mirrors on all the walls. I fought my captive over to the center of the room where a chain was waiting, hanging down from the ceiling. I wrapped it around the punk's neck and snapped a padlock on to hold it in place. It wasn't tight enough to choke him, but it made sure that he couldn't move away from that spot.	Finally he opens a door and we enter a large room with a lot of mirrors. He drags me to the centre of the room and he grabs a chain. He wraps it around my neck and he blocks it. I cannot move.
I stepped away from the punk to put on my gloves and other evidence-suppressing protective gear. That may seem overly cautious - after all, I took the precaution of enrolling in a yoga class that meets once a week in this very room so that if the police find fragments of my skin or hair here, there will be a ready explanation for it. But I don't believe in taking chances, and did not plan on leaving any trace of my presence here tonight.	He takes his hat and his glasses off, then puts on other clothes until he is covered from head to toe, even his hands wear gloves. Why? The night is warm, why wear so much clothes? He comes over to me, I cannot see his eyes. He is breathing heavily from the exertion, sweat is dropping from his brow. I speak:
The punk started gibbering at me. I could barely make out the words - he had some kind of accent. If he was an illegal, it might put a crimp in my plans. The cops wouldn't put much effort into investigating the murder of an illegal alien, and the whole point of this was to make sure they investigate the crime.	"Are you mad? What does it mean?"
I figured I'd just have to make the murder grisly enough that they'd HAVE to investigate it, and the thought brought a slow smile to my face.	He smiles, but he doesn't answer. I can see he is satisfied.
"Gary, please, what..." he said. I interrupted "I'm not Gary." He gabbled something else, but I didn't pay attention. I was trying to figure out what nationality he might be and how that might affect the evening's plan.	"Gary, please, what..." He interrupts me. "I am not Gary." How is it possible? What... "What are you doing, what does it mean?" No answer. He is smiling. He asks:
"You Mexican?" I asked him. Of course not. His accent wasn't Spanish, it was something else.	"Are you Mexican?" Mexican? Sometimes they think I am Mexican, but I'm not a chicano.
"No, I'm Italian," he answered. Once he said it, I realized that was exactly what he looked like. Mediterranean skin, dark curly hair... he had to be either Italian or Greek. I gave him the once-over - he was actually pretty good-looking, no surprise given Gary's tastes, and I found myself enjoying the prospect of what was to come a little more. Up till now, it had been all work: planning the course of events down to the smallest detail. This was the first glimmer I had that, now that the moment had finally come, I could actually have a little fun in the process.	"No, I'm Italian. But..."
"What's your real name?" I asked him. "Fred" was the handle Gary knew him by, but that had to be a fake. No doubt he was actually called Armando or Nicodemio or some other vowel-heavy, polysyllabic appellation. Not that I cared, of course. But I wasn't quite ready to dive into the night's work yet. A little chit-chat helped to prolong that delicious moment of anticipation, that moment of teetering on the edge of a cliff, when the fantasy of what is to come is still just a fantasy, ripe with potential and possibility. Soon enough, the blood would start to flow and the shimmering fantasy would become brutal, rank reality. Why not let the moment linger?	He doesn't answer. Another question: "What's your name?" He knows very well my name is Fred, he called me so when we met. What does he want?
"Fred," he answered. It took me a moment to figure out what he said - it sounded more like "fid-DED-da" than "Fred". So that's the way you want to play it, "Fred". Fine. And I'm Mother Teresa. I could see in his eyes that he had no idea yet how badly his evening had veered off course. He had been hurt and surprised, yes, but was still basically unharmed. He probably thought he was in for some rough sex, maybe a little smacky-face, then it would all be over and he'd go back to his drab little life. I hadn't been planning to fill the victim in on the details of what would be happening to him - after all, this story was about Gary, not "Fred". But something prompted me to fill him in on the details, however pointless it was to do so.	I tell him: "Fred." I look at him. I don't understand. Is he going to explain? What does he want from me?
"Listen, 'Fred', I've got nothing against you, personally, but you are going to be my instrument of revenge tonight."	"Listen, Fred, I have nothing against you, but you are the instrument of a little revenge."
I walked close to him and pulled his shirt open. Buttons popped off and flew around the room - what a satisfying feeling! His chest lay exposed, covered in dark fur and heaving with his ragged breathing. I could certainly see why Gary would choose this guy to hook up with.	He doesn't say anything else. He approaches. He grabs my shirt and rips it open, exposing my chest. He nods, he seems to be satisfied. I am sweating. I am afraid. What does he want? A revenge. Not against me. Against whom? Gary?
He gabbled something else. I shrugged my shoulders, having no clue what he was talking about. To shut him up, I grabbed hold of his chin and turned his face toward mine. The smell of fear was rising from his skin. I inhaled deeply.	"Listen, I don't know Gary, I am not his friend." Stupid thing to say. Of course I don't know Gary, I wouldn't have called him Gary! He shrugs his shoulders. He grabs my chin and looks at me.
"You're a fine specimen of young buck," I told him, my eyes locked with his. "It will be a pleasure to slaughter you."	"A very nice specimen of young man. It will be a pleasure to slaughter you..."
Damn, was that a mistake. The punk reacted far faster than I expected him to, bringing his knee up into my crotch. I doubled over and felt his foot slam into my face on its way down. I fell backward and lay on the floor a bit, watching the stars swim in front of my eyes. Adrenalin surged in my blood, the old fight-or-flight reflex kicking in. But I forced emotion down - the punk wasn't going anywhere. And I had all night in front of me... I stood up and wiped a trickle of blood off my upper lip. I considered delivering some kind of flip one-liner, a bon mot along the lines of "you'll pay for that" or "that was the last face you'll ever kick". But I didn't say anything. Direct confrontation is not my style. Besides, actions speak louder than words.	A wave of panic seizes me. I react. I give him a blow in his crotch with my knee. He withdraws and doubles. I give him a well-aimed kick at his face. Thrust back with the force of the blow, he falls. I desperately try to free myself, but it is useless. It is stupid. It was a stupid thing to do. I look at him. He is rising. Blood is running from his nose. He smiles. Not a friendly smile. My stomach flutters. I made a mistake, it was the panic. Shit! Shit! Shit! I squeeze my eyes shut. Then I open them. It is a joke, it must be a joke. But I know it is not.
The punk fought me every step of the way, but I eventually got his legs roped together. It was a fun little ballet we performed, he and I - I would try to get the rope wrapped around his legs without coming close enough to leave myself vulnerable to another kick; he would try to slip out of the rope before I could tighten it enough to trap him. He was hampered, of course, by the fact that he couldn't move away from the spot where he was standing, nor use his hands to balance himself as we stepped and kicked our way through our little pas-de-deux. Several times, he lost his balance and got himself jerked up by the chain before he could get his feet safely back under him again.	A rope? Why does he have a rope in his hands? He has already handcuffed me. He is kneeling... he wants to rope my legs. It won't be so easy, you son-of bitch! I try to give him a well aimed kick, but I cannot take him off guard. Of course, he is not stupid, he knows very well that I'll try to stop him. I try again, but he is quicker and the rope is around my left leg. I manage to slip out of it, but he doesn't give it up. I never succeed in hitting him and suddenly I lose my balance and I fall. I cannot fall, the chain around my neck jerks me up. I remain breathless and he tries again. It is useless, but it's my last chance. Do I have a chance? No, I know I haven't any. I try again to fight, but this son-of-bitch can move quickly. I fall again and again and every time the chain stops my breath. It's a strange feeling, every time. A strange feeling, a strong feeling. Painful, but I feel something stirring inside. Soon, very soon, I am sweating from exertion and fear.
Soon enough, though, I had a rope wrapped around his legs just above the knees, and another one fastening his ankles together, and his struggles stopped. I came close then and we stared at each other, breathing each other's breath and gazing into each others' eyes. Oh, how he hated me, that much was clear. He gathered a wad to spit at me, and I let him, picking up the flapping edge of his shirt and wiping the glop off my face with it.	The last time I fall, I discover I cannot move my legs anymore: he has managed to rope them. It's useless to struggle, now. It has been useless from the beginning. Now it's the end. He is approaching. I hate him I hate his smile, I hate his freedom of movement. He is looking me in my eyes, he is so near I could kiss him, but I don't want to kiss him, I would like to bite him... it's a stupid idea. I hate him, I hate his grey eyes staring at me. I spit on his face. He wipes himself with my shirt. I would like to kick him again, but it is not possible. I am in his power.
I spoke then, my voice soft and low. "I really wish I had the time to do you right," I told him. "I'm very skilled at this, you know. I could make you suffer for weeks. Months. I would start you out slowly, oh so slowly. Then bit by bit, increase the pain, day by day, cranking up your suffering and dialing it back again, each time taking you higher and higher until your mind was utterly lost in the torment. Only then would I grant you release.	"I really wish I had the time to do you right, I'm very skilled at this, you know. I could make you suffer for weeks. Months." I feel a shudder of fear. But there is something, something I cannot describe, in his voice. It's mesmerizing. I imagine his strong hands over my body, I... "I would start you out slowly, oh so slowly. Then bit by bit, increase the pain, day by day, cranking up your suffering and dialing it back again, each time taking you higher and higher until your mind was utterly lost in the torment." He could do it, I know. He is not joking. This is not a play. I shudder, but there isn't only fear. I am almost fascinated. It's senseless... I cannot understand it, what's happening to me? Why do his words have such a strong power? "Only then would I grant you release." Release means death and I can see, as it were in front of me, the image of my corpse.
"I wish I could do that," I said, "but I just don't have the time. I only have a few hours to torture you to death, then plant the evidence that will lead the police straight to Gary."	He adds something about his revenge against Gary, but I don't hear anymore. He has said "Torture you to death". He wasn't joking when he spoke about slaughtering me. Like in these stories I read on Greasetank. Snuff stories. I am going to die. To die. Because of Gary.
"Why Gary?" he said. I said nothing. "Why me?" he asked. "I do nothing to you."	"Why Gary?" The question is absurd, but it came to my lips and I uttered it. And I add, perfectly conscious that it is nonsense: "Why me? I do nothing to you."
I broke away from him then and walked over to my supply area. I heard the clink of the chain behind me as he thrashed uselessly again.	He doesn't answer. He turns and walks to a corner where there is a table. There are two large bags on it. I try to move, but is useless. I am afraid, but I feel aroused, too: my cock is stiffening and this is very strange.
"You ever been fishing, Fred?" I asked. If he answered, I didn't hear it. No matter. I dug around on the table for the items I was looking for. "When you put a chunk of bait on your line and drop it into the water, do you actually care which particular fish bites your hook? No, you don't. Except for size, one bass is just like any other bass, one trout is just like all the rest."	"You ever been fishing, Fred?" What a stupid question! He goes on: "When you put a chunk of bait on your line and drop it into the water, do you actually care which particular fish bites your hook?" For him I am just the fish he was looking for. He is mad. And I am in danger.
I picked up one of the small blades from the table and tucked it into my pocket, out of his view. Then I found the thick, black hood and turned back toward my captive. He saw it and flinched, but of course there was nowhere he could go. I crossed back over to him and began working the leather over his head. He struggled, uselessly. "You're my fish, Fred. If it hadn't been you, it would have been somebody else just like you. To me, you're all the same." He probably thought that was a racist comment: "all you foreigners look alike to me". I wondered if he'd realize that I actually meant everyone in the entire world. All those busy little beings, swarming around, scrambling and scraping to get dollars and euros and rupees and yuan, then racing just as quickly to spend them. All of them different in the meaningless particulars of their lives, but all the same by the only measurement that mattered: none of them were me. It seemed like too fine a philosophical point to debate with him, so I let him think what he wanted.	He is coming back. He has something in his hand, what... A hood! Shit! He approaches, he begins to slip the leather hood on my head. I move my head, I try to struggle, but I cannot defend myself, not with a chain around my neck, the rope and the handcuffs. I am completely blind, now. "You're my fish, Fred. If it hadn't been you, it would have been somebody else just like you. To me, you're all the same."
I snugged the hood into place and buckled the straps to hold it in place. It had thick padding over the mouth, an opening at the nose to breathe through, and tiny dots for the eyes. It would allow him to see just enough of what was going on to frighten and frustrate him, and it would muffle any shouts he would make to a manageable volume without completely cutting off his ability to form words.	Now that the hood is in its place, I discover that it has two holes for the eyes: I can see something, but only something. Now he is buckling the straps of the hood. There is a padding at the mouth: I cannot breathe with my mouth, only with the nose. His voice seems lower, now, I cannot hear well.
I thought of an inspired ending to my fish metaphor as I slid the blade out of my pocket and silently folded it open down where he couldn't see it. "The point is, no matter what the fish looks like when you catch it, it ends up just like all the rest: gutted and filleted." I raised the knife up to his exposed chest and drew a thin red line across the top of one well-muscled pec.	"The point is, no matter what the fish looks like when you catch it, it ends up just like all the rest: gutted and filleted." He said "gutted". And again I see this man, a knife in his hand, opening my belly. A wave of fear overcomes me, but my cock is almost fully rigid, now. I hope he doesn't notice it. I try to pull my body in. It's senseless. He wants to kill me and I have a hardon. He is a killer and I don't want him knowing that...
He squirmed and squawked, as I expected he would. I loved the way he tried to writhe away from my blade. He had enough freedom of movement to wiggle around, but not enough to get away. He knew all his efforts were doomed from the start, but it was unthinkable that he would just stand there and let me cut him. No, his body's instinct for survival and desire to avoid pain forced him to struggle, however useless his mind knew his struggles were.	"Aaaah!" It was a burning, like a flame, on my chest, on the left side. I cannot see his hands. Does he have a candle, a match? I bend my head, trying to see better. It is not a candle, it's a knife. A chill runs through my back.
It was while I was making the second cut that I noticed the large white elephant in the room, which I had somehow missed up until that point. "Fred's" struggles brought his pelvic area into contact with my thigh, and, even though it should have been obvious what it was, nevertheless my first thought was "what, does he have a flashlight in his pocket?" I absolutely was not expecting that he would have developed an erection, given what I was in the middle of doing to him.	He is moving his hand, he is going to cut again. I feel the burning a second time, on the right side, but this time I don't shout. I remain silent. I don't want to see him delighted. I shut my mouth. I won't yell anymore. I brace myself. I'll give him no satisfaction. Now I feel the point of the blade against my left tit. Is he going to cut through it? Not now, later perhaps, now this son of bitch is just playing, like a cat with a mouse. I am a mouse in a trap, I am a prisoner and he is my gaoler and my executioner. I am going to die, but my cock rears up.
And yet, there it was. I stopped cutting in mid-slice, leaving only a tiny trickle of blood dripping down each side of his chest. I then turned my knife lower. He jumped, but all I was after were his clothes. Cutting through clothing is awkward work. They make it look easy in the movies, but in real life it's impossible to do gracefully. It's even less elegant when the clothing is tied tightly to the body that's wearing it. But this was not the movies, and I had no audience to impress, so I fumbled my way through, and soon enough, I had worked the last bits of fabric off his body, leaving him standing naked, wearing only his ropes and chains.	And suddenly I see the blade of his knife against my hard cock. Shit! Not my cock, not this. I am going to die, but not so! I try to avoid it, but it is senseless, I can hardly move. The blade is cutting my trousers. What is he going to do? What is there now, in that sick brain? Then I understand, he is stripping me naked, this son of bitch. OK, faggot, if you want to se me naked, here am I, with a large cock ready to use. Do you want to taste it? In your mouth or in your ass, as you like. I am ready. I am going to die, but I am ready.
He was glaring defiantly at me through the pinhole eyes in the hood. The impossible-to-hide erection was jutting forward from his bound legs, poking stiffly into the air between us.	I look at him. What are you going to do, you, bag of shit? Suck my cock!
"You sick creature," I told him. "I cannot believe that you are actually getting off on this." This was not in the plan at all.	He speaks: "You sick creature, I cannot believe that you are actually getting off on this." I could laugh. He calls me "sick creature" He! He is mad, completely mad, but I already knew it. He is going to kill me just to amuse himself, but I am sick. I never met such a son of bitch, such a rabid dog.
"You call me the sick one," he replied in slow, muffled words. "You are the one tying me, you are the one cutting me. YOU are the sick fuck here!" He had a point, I guess. Still... it completely destroyed the mood for me. When I torture a man, dammit, he's not supposed to ENJOY it!	I say: "You call me the sick one, you are the one tying me, you are the one cutting me. YOU are the sick fuck here!" He seems taken off balance, but it's only a moment.
"Look," I said, "give me a little credit, OK? I know what I'm talking about. You're not the first over-muscled, mush-brained meathead I've taken down, you know. In fact, you're the fifth. And up until now, not a single one of them - not one - has popped a woody in the process. Just you. So what does that make you, some kind of hyper-masochistic freak? Some kind of self-loathing myrmidon who gets turned on by the fact that he's about to be tortured to death?"	"Look, give me a little credit, OK? I know what I'm talking about." He says I am not the first stud he has killed. "In fact, you're the fifth." I shudder. I thought that perhaps he could change his mind. I hoped, it was a faint hope, but now I know that it is really the end. He has already killed, he is a murderer, a bloody, sick murderer! He goes on: "And up until now, not a single one of them - not one - has popped a woody in the process. Just you. So what does that make you, some kind of hyper-masochistic freak? Some kind of self-loathing myrmidon who gets turned on by the fact that he's about to be tortured to death?"
No answer. Perhaps I had exceeded the myrmidon's vocabulary.	I don't understand exactly what he is saying. What's a myrmidon? I cannot hear well and he doesn't try to speak plain words. I hate him. I should like to spit on his face, but I cannot. And everything is useless. I hate him, I never hated anyone so much... I would be happy to die if only I could destroy him.
I stomped back and forth for a while, trying to decide what to do next. My first impulse was to go with the plan, and just crank up the intensity a bit. Surely some serious pain would knock the wind out of the punk's sails. And yet, every time I looked over at him, there he stood, bound, gagged, and hooded, chained by the neck to the ceiling, his own blood drying on his chest... and with his unbending flagpole still pointing due north. I'd never worked on a masochist before. The thought was repugnant. It took any hint of pleasure out of what I was doing. But how to proceed? I couldn't let the jerk go, but the thought of working my magic to the sounds of "more! more!" instead of "stop! stop!" was so off-putting. But time was limited, and a decision had to be made, and so I made one. There is, after all, one effective way of taking the wood out of a woody. Aside from just slicing it off, of course, which would have necessitated changes to certain later parts of my plan.	He is hesitating. He is certainly thinking about the next torture. Or does he want to fuck me? Or to be fucked? Ready, mister, I am ready to face fuck you or to open your ass and fill your innards with my cum.
"OK, Fred," I said. "There's been a slight change of plan. You're going to get one last orgasm." Draining his spunk should help in two ways, both softening his dick and reducing his endurance for later pain.	"OK, Fred, there's been a slight change of plan. You're going to get one last orgasm." Yes, it is like I thought, he wants to be fucked.. I like the idea of fucking him, it's good, fucking my killer.
He mumbled something back that I couldn't make out through the hood. I went over to my supply shelf and brought back a length of rope and a five-pound weight. I went back and grabbed his ball sac, working it out from between his thighs. I wrapped the rope around the base of his balls, then tied the other end to the weight. I let the weight drop, not too far, but enough to make him grunt. After that, his dick, which hadn't softened a bit, no longer jutted upward but instead pointed somewhere south of horizontal.	"You are just an asshole!" But he doesn't answer, perhaps he didn't hear me, it's difficult to speak with this hood. He goes to the large bag and takes a rope and a... what's this? Iron. I don't understand. Is he going to push that thing into my ass? Hey! He grabs my nuts. What is he going to do? He is wrapping the rope around them and then... He is attaching the piece of iron to the rope. Balls-torture. I tried it, sometimes. I like it, but now... He is looking at me, now, he is smiling and he lets the iron drop. Argh! Painful, but I can bear it.
I grabbed his dick and started jacking it. It was clear that Fred didn't want to be enjoying himself in his current circumstances, but his body was betraying him. A few minutes in and his hips were pumping and thrusting in time with my rhythm, even though his motions caused the dangling weight to swing and bob and bang into his legs. I took a break to slather some cream on my hand, then started stroking again. The cream brought his sensation level to new peaks, and I could tell he was getting close.	He grabs my dick. Hand-job, so? He hasn't the gut to take it into his ass or mouth, but he wants to feel it. Such a stupid faggot. But I like the feeling of his hand around my cock, he is good at it. He certainly likes doing it. And the feeling is great, really great. I hate to show him that I am pleasing myself, but the feeling is too strong and the pleasure is going up and up, in waves that are rising from my cock and balls.. I begin to move my ass and I feel the iron stretching my nuts. It's good, it's really good. I like the pain in my nuts and the feeling of his warm hand around my cock. He stops. Why? Was it just to tease me? He is putting some cream on his hand and... he goes on! Great, really a great feeling. You are mad, completely mad, but you know how to do a handjob.
Another minute, and he was going over the edge, spraying thick white drops all over the floor. Which, come to think of it, would provide some nice extra evidence for the cops to sift through. I jacked him a few more times, then stepped back and waited for him come down from his high and notice me. When he did, I said "You liked that?"	And then it is too strong, from my nuts the pleasure goes on whirling through my cock and fills my body in a large wave. I close my eyes. I see soldiers running, a large red cock, a dark ass, naked powerful men, I see images floating. I am so well, so far from this room. But his voice, his bloody voice, calls me back: "You liked that?"
He grunted a response.	I answer: "You are good at this, this is what you should do. You could earn money in this way." But he doesn't hear me.
"Well," I said, "I hope it was enjoyable, because that was your last one."	"Well, I hope it was enjoyable, because that was your last one."
I retrieved a C-clamp from my supply shelf and brought it over to his crotch. His cock was still twitching and drooling fluid from its tip. But it was definitely softening, which was the effect I had been seeking, and his balls were turning purple under the stretched skin. He began to whimper as he felt the touch of the cold metal. He made a half-hearted attempt to turn away from me, but he couldn't bear to swing the weight too wildly, so it was easy enough for me to slip the clamp into place around his left testicle and begin to tighten the screw. Round and round it went, steadily pushing the two cups of the clamp together, with his left nut trapped between them.	He is going back to his bag. What's next? What is he planning, this mad man? He has taken something, it seems a vice. What's next, what's he doing? He takes my nuts in his hands and I can feel the vice against them. I shudder. I begin to sweat. A wave of panic seizes me. I try to avoid it, but the iron attached to my nuts is heavy and every movement is an agony of pain. What can I do? What can I do?
Testicles are such wonderful organs, so sensitive, and yet so sturdy. The slightest squeeze causes their owner such pain, and yet it is possible to compress a testicle to a thickness of only a quarter of an inch and still have it rebound perfectly unscathed, if a bit tender. I was going to compress it a bit smaller than that.	He begins to tighten the vice. I am sweating profusely now, I cannot manage to restrain myself. The pain is increasing. I howl. My heart is pounding in my chest.
Fred began to thrash and shout as I cranked the clamp tighter and tighter. I took a break to let him savor the sensation while I admired the view. There was perhaps half an inch between the two halves of the clamp. The skin of his scrotum was stretched out over his deformed ball, which was being squeezed out on every side around the two cups. I could only imagine the torment my little Freddy-boy was feeling. Poor slob.	I try to free myself, even if I know it is not possible, I want to escape from the increasing pain. I shout, but there is no escape, I am lost.
I reached in and gave the handle another half turn. Fred jumped and grunted into the hood. He so desperately wanted to get his hands around to his front side to protect his poor, vulnerable nuts, but the cuffs just wouldn't let him. It didn't stop him from yanking and pulling at them, twisting his body uselessly around. There was no escaping the clamp, which stuck to him no matter which way he turned. By now his dick had gone completely soft. At last.	The pain is boiling up from my nut, stronger every time he tightens the vice. I cannot bear it anymore, I cannot. Please, don't, don't!
Another crank of the screw, another shout from Fred. His ball was now being squashed flatter than one would think was possible, and yet if I were to release the clamp now, it would be just fine. A little bit sore, but otherwise whole and intact. Time to crank it harder, then.	I am sweating, like a pig. I believe I am going to pass out.
Fred was having trouble breathing now, not because of the hood, but because of the incredible pain his nut was telegraphing up his spine to his brain. He had stopped moving around, probably because every movement only made his agony worse. I was moving the handle in tiny increments now, less than a quarter of a turn. The skin had turned completely purple, and his testicle was almost unrecognizable as such. We had reached the quarter-inch point for sure. Nuts may be resilient, but they're not indestructible, and his was fast approaching the point of no return.	I feel the pressure increasing and then...
I started to give it another quarter turn, and had only gone halfway when suddenly there was no resistance. Fred screamed a long, high-pitched moan and began to jump and thrash again. I held on and finished cranking the clamp the rest of the way closed. The only thing between the two cups of the clamp now were skin and a few bits of mushed-up meat that used to be a testicle.	I scream and the world seems to fade, I cannot see anymore, there is only pain, pain pulsing in my head, pain raging in my nut, pain surging, from my nut, to every part of my body. A sea of pain and I am drowning in the pain. I grunt and I gulp for air.
Fred was going wild. The way he pulled on that neck chain I thought I was going to have to go in and stop him from hanging himself, but he never quite got to the point where he needed rescuing. I let him go for a while until finally his panic had faded a bit. When he was a little calmer I reached in and undid the clamp. It only took a few turns before the skin slipped out from between the cups. When it did, the rope around the base of his sac suddenly found itself with only one nut holding it in place instead of two. Under the pull of the weight, it slipped right off around his remaining ball, which elicited another yelp from Fred.	I shudder. It's cold, suddenly it's cold, but I am sweating. He takes the iron away and he yanks my cock.
I kicked the weight away, then yanked on Fred's shriveled cock a few times. "Not so stiff now, it seems," I said. All I got in reply was a muffled groan.	"Not so stiff now, it seems." I can see the evil leer in his face. I hate him. "Shit!"
For the next part of the evening's entertainment, I had planned a strappado. This is the sort of game you just can't play in a consensual S&M scene, where the victim is supposed to be able to get up and walk away undamaged after the scene is over. To do a strappado right, you really need to dislocate the victim's shoulders, completely ripping his arms out of their sockets until the ligaments connecting bone to bone are torn apart and the only things keeping his arms attached to his body are his overstretched muscles and some skin. This technique was a favorite of the Spanish Inquisition back when they were a serious force, a far cry from today when they are little more than joke fodder for irreverent goofballs like Monty Python. I had never tried one before, and was curious to see how it would play out.	I begin to breathe again, but the pain is so strong!
I got the supplies I would need, then began wrapping rope around Fred's wrists. The cuffs would have made for a more painful suspension for him, but I didn't want to risk having his hand slip out of the metal bracelet. When I had tied them firmly together, wrist to wrist with only a little slack between them, I removed the cuffs. He flexed his hands, testing his new bonds, but didn't say anything.	This son of bitch is planning something else. His sick mind never stops. He has a rope, now. I cannot move. What does he need a rope for? I can feel the rope around my wrists. Why? I am already cuffed. He is removing the cuffs, now, but my situation doesn't improve, the rope blocks every movement. I look at the son of bitch. I should like to kill him, but he'll kill me, I know it.
The setup had been tough to work out. It had to be both sturdy and portable, since I couldn't very well leave my equipment sitting around while dance classes were being taught. I wanted to use a mechanized winch, but there weren't any convenient attachment points that were strong enough for my needs. So I had to make my own. I drilled five holes in the smooth hardwood floor while Fred watched me. His stare kept making me feel self-conscious, so a couple of times I held the drill up and made threatening motions at him with it. That was just to scare him, though.	Then he begins to drill holes in the floor. What's this crap? What's this crap? He is aware I am looking at him and he takes the drill and moves towards me. A wave of fear overwhelms me, but he is joking, this bloody pig, this madman, this son of bitch is just playing, he is amusing himself. He is completely kinky.
One of the holes I fixed a ring bolt into, strong and sturdy The other four I used to bolt the winch in place. I stretched its power cord over to a wall outlet, then used a ladder to reach up to the metal ceiling rafters and attach a pulley to one of them. This thing was rated to 2,000 pounds, which ought to be enough to support the load it would need to hold. Over the pulley went a rope, thicker and stronger than the ones I had used up till now. One end I hooked to the short length connecting Fred's wrists behind his back; the other end I fed into the winch.	I don't understand what he is doing. There is a rope, a ring, he is fixing the rope to the floor. What is he planning? I'll discover it soon, very soon, I know. I hate him, I hate him, I would give my life to kill him, to see him dead. But he'll kill me. He takes a ladder, now. He is attaching something, it seems to be a pulley, to the ceiling. What is he planning? What's inside that sick brain?
"OK, Fred," I said. "Show time."	"OK, Fred, show time."
I turned on the winch. It began to turn, slowly taking up the slack in the rope. When most of the slack was gone, I turned the winch off and went over to remove the chain from around Fred's neck and the ropes from around his legs. He was now free to move around, but only within a circle perhaps two paces across before he was stopped by the rope connecting his hands to the ceiling. He used the opportunity to strike up a conversation.	He takes the chain off my neck and the rope off my legs. I can move a little, but only a little. This son of bitch is free. But they'll catch him, he'll spend his life in jail. Yes, I am sure. He cannot go on killing men for his pleasure.
"You know they will catch you for this," he said. "You will spend the rest of your life in jail."	"You know they will catch you for this, you will spend the rest of your life in jail." Why did I tell him this? It's senseless, but I hate him, I hate him.
He was so earnest and yet so pathetic that I had to laugh, long and hard. When I could speak again I said "Fred, weren't you listening? I already told you I've done this four times before. It's the same pattern each time: I pick someone I don't like, then find a way to frame him for a gruesome murder."	He is laughing, now, this dirty pig is laughing, showing his teeth. "Fred, weren't you listening? I already told you I've done this four times before. It's the same pattern each time: I pick someone I don't like, then find a way to frame him for a gruesome murder." He cannot escape, he cannot kill me and remain free, he cannot. The police must catch him, they'll certainly catch him and send him to a madhouse. I shout:
"It is not possible," he said.	"It is not possible."
"Dammit, it IS possible," I said. He was making me angry - not good. Angry people make stupid mistakes. I started up the winch again and pulled out all the slack in the rope. He was forced to stand directly under the pulley, bent over with his wrists at about the height of his shoulders. "It worked four times before, and it's going to work this time, too."	"Dammit, it IS possible!" He begins to pull the rope and to lift my wrists behind my back. He forces me to bend. "It worked four times before, and it's going to work this time, too." He is nervous, he begins to be afraid. I answer, but it is not easy, it's difficult to breathe in this position.
"The police, they are very smart in this country," he continued. "They have ways of figure out what really happened at a crime." He had to take several breaths to get all the words out, bent over as he was. I cranked him up a few more inches until he had to stand on his toes.	"The police, they are very smart in this country. They have ways of figure out what really happened at a crime." He pulls the rope and I am almost lifted. I stay on my toes. The strain in my arms and elbows is painful.
"You watch too much TV," I said. "Sure, on CSI they do that stuff, but mostly, cops don't care. Who are you, anyway, some burger-flipping nobody? Will anyone even notice that you're gone? Unless your last name is Corleone, I seriously doubt it." I winched him up another inch or two. He didn't answer this time, probably too focused on keeping his breathing going. Now I was back in control of the situation.	"You watch too much TV." He is sure nobody will look for me. My father will, certainly, even if we lose contact some time ago. "Will anyone even notice that you're gone? Unless your last name is Corleone, I seriously doubt it." The rope, the rope is stretching my arms. It's painful. And it's hard to breathe.
"Look," I said, "Gary is back at his place." He tells me Gary wouldn't care for me. I would prefer Gary's indifference to this son-of-a-bitch's attention! "All he wanted from you was a good fuck."	"Look, Gary is back at his place fuming about how the battery in his car died. He might try to e-mail you or IM you to tell you he couldn't make your date tonight, but honestly, I doubt it. He's just not that concerned about you. All he wanted from you was a good fuck."
Now was as good a time as any to plant some evidence. I went over to the supply shelf and got some. I held it under Fred's bent head to show him - bits of skin and hair extracted from Gary's car. I began to liberally sprinkle it around the area, making sure to rub some on Fred.	And now, what is he doing? He is taking something from that bloody bag, little bits of... of what? I cannot see. He throws them around me. He is mad, as mad as a cow. He rubs them on my head, on my belly.
"I think what Gary most likely did was get someone to jump his battery for him, then go out and drive a while to charge it up. By now, he's probably back home, feeling grumpy. When he gets grumpy, he usually drinks a couple of beers and falls asleep in front of the TV set."	"I think what Gary most likely did was get someone to jump his battery for him, then go out and drive a while to charge it up. By now, he's probably back home, feeling grumpy. When he gets grumpy, he usually drinks a couple of beers and falls asleep in front of the TV set." He knows Gary very well. Is he his lover? Or was he his lover? He wants to revenge himself because Gary doesn't like him anymore? Is this the reason?
"How do you know so much about him?" Fred said from between clenched teeth.	"How do you know so much about him?"
"Because I live in the apartment next to his, and the wall between us is thin," I said. "Believe me, I've studied our boy Gary for a good long while. You know, in a way, there's a silver lining to what is happening to you tonight. You wouldn't have liked Gary very much if you had met him. He's not a nice person. He would have fucked you, then dumped you and never seen you again. He's the kind of guy who can't even be bothered to reach around and give you a hand job while he's got his dick in your ass."	"Because I live in the apartment next to his, and the wall between us is thin." He is Gary's neighbour! If only I could leave a message, they would catch him. I won't be here to see his face when the police will catch him, but... it would be gorgeous. "Believe me, I've studied our boy Gary for a good long while. You know, in a way, there's a silver lining to what is happening to you tonight. You wouldn't have liked Gary very much if you had met him. He's not a nice person. He would have fucked you, then dumped you and never seen you again. He's the kind of guy who can't even be bothered to reach around and give you a hand job while he's got his dick in your ass." "Believe me, I've studied our boy Gary for a good long while." He tells me I wouldn't have liked Gary! Certainly, it's far better to meet a kinky murderer! "He's not a nice person." And what do you think you are, you, bloody bastard? Son of bitch! Does he think that I like him?
I finished salting the place with Gary's DNA, then cranked up the winch a bit higher until Fred's toes just brushed the floor. I watched as his body slowly sagged down until he could bear some of his weight on his feet. It wasn't the rope stretching - it was his sinews. I decided to talk a while more to fill the time until he found a new equilibrium.	What is he doing? He pulls the rope and again the pain in my arms. I have to make an effort, but I manage to touch the floor. But my arms are stretching too much, it's really painful.
"It's going to be quite a shock to poor Gary when the police come to arrest him, armed with all sorts of evidence against him," I said. "His skin and hair at the scene of the crime. Your blood in his car. All carefully, but not carefully enough, cleaned up to make it look like he tried to hide his involvement but failed. The poor guy won't know what hit him.	"It's going to be quite a shock to poor Gary when the police come to arrest him, and there are a lot of proofs against him: skin, hair, blood. All carefully, but not carefully enough, cleaned up to make it look like he tried to hide his crime. The poor guy won't know what happened." His skin and hair? So the fragments he rubbed over my body were Gary's hair and bits of skin. This son of bitch is really a snake, he is kinky, but he is clever.
"I know it's risky to do it, but I plan to be there to watch with all the other neighbors when the cops drag him out to the street. Maybe I'll cozy up to Mrs. Jablonski - she's always good for a long chat about the misfortunes of others. I can hear her now... 'I always knew there was something about that man!' She'll be in heaven going over the gruesome details of what that vicious cur did. How he crushed that poor boy's left nut and then wrenched his arms right out of their sockets. Oh! Which reminds me..."	"It's a risk, I know, but I want to see when the cops drag him out to the street" He adds something about a certain Mrs. Diabloski: "She'll say: 'I always knew there was something strange about that man!' She'll tell all the details of what that vicious madman did. How he crushed that poor boy's left nut and then wrenched his arms right out of their sockets."
Now that Fred was stretched out as much as he could be, I winched him up until his toes were about a foot above the ground. Grunts and moans told me that he did not find this position very comfortable. I then did a complicated trick with another bit of rope, fastening it to the first one and to the ring bolt in the floor. Now, the winch could pull Fred's body higher, but he could never drop any lower than he was now - if I unrolled the winch, the other rope would hold his weight suspended at its current height. And now it was time for the show to begin in earnest.	Wrenched his arms... Shit, this is what he is going to do! Shit! No, no, no! I am sweating, now
I started fairly small. I took Fred up another foot, then released the winch to spin freely. Fred dropped until the bolt caught his weight, yanking him up hard by his wrists. He screamed. I let him hang there for a minute or so.	He is pulling the rope again. Suddenly I fall. It's only a little jump, but the pain is stunning. I scream. I scream. He looks at me, smiling. You, shit! Will he let me here, hanging down? My arms, my arms! Shit!
Then I cranked him up again. Eighteen inches this time. I held him there a while, letting him wait for it, then again I let him drop, and again the bolt stopped him short of reaching the floor. Another scream. Oh, how I wished I could record this on video, to play over and over again! But it was too chancy. The way to survive when you have tastes like mine is to keep everything in your head. Physical evidence must be kept to a minimum, and must be destroyed when it has served its purpose. After taking care of business here, my first task on arriving home would be to dispose of my phreaking equipment.	Again, he pulls the rope, but when the rope lifts me, the pain is stronger, now, in my arms, in my elbows. Stop, stop! He waits. He is enjoying himself. This kinky bag of shit. I am sweating, the fear is grabbing my bowels. He is going to drop me again, no, no! I scream, the pain is stronger, I cannot bear it.
Two whole feet this time. Drop. Scream. I could tell by the change in pitch of the scream that something was different this time. I couldn't see any changes in the way his arms were positioned, but something must have torn inside him to cause that degree of agony. I let him dangle, then brought him up as high as I could take him, about six feet or so.	He is pulling, the pain in my elbows and arms is stunning. I... not again, not again! I cannot stand it! I cannot! Argh. I scream in utter torment. I almost faint. It was... My mouth opens and I realise I am beginning to drool. He is pulling again. Stop, please, stop! I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it, I... He is lifting me higher and higher, almost to the ceiling. No, God, don't.
I left him there, hanging by his wrists from the ceiling, every fiber of his being straining to ease the pain and yet utterly unable to find the smallest relief. I walked over to stand beneath him. He spun slowly in the air, legs pinwheeling helplessly beneath him. I could see now some dark red-purple blotches forming around his armpits - internal bleeding. I watched him in rapture, admiring all those powerful muscles of his, rendered impotent by a simple contraption of rope. This, THIS, was worth two years of work! I reached down to stroke my own boner through my pants. Not to climax, of course - got to keep the physical evidence to a minimum.	He leaves me here, the pain in my arms and elbows is unbearable, I cannot stand it, I cannot stand it... I can feel the strain of the pull of my weight in my arms and shoulders, and all across my chest. I look at him. He is stroking his cock. It's hard. He is enjoying it, of course, he is happy to look at my agony. He has a boner. And he says I am the sick creature! This man is raving mad. I avert my eyes, I don't want to see him anymore.
Back to the winch. I waited until he was facing toward me. His eyes, peering through the pinholes in the hood, were locked on my hand as I held it hovering over the switch that would send him plunging toward the ground again. The pleading I could see there might have moved me at one time in my life. Not now, though. I faked a motion toward the switch once, twice, then on the third time hit it for real.	But I want to know what he is doing to do. I look at him again and I see he is going to make me fall again. No, I cannot bear it, No! He is doing it, no, he doesn't, he's only joking, he's playing with my pain, with my fear, my death. I hate him, as I never hated anyone in my life. Again. NO!
He fell.	I fall.
The six-foot drop was enough to finish the job. This time, when he hit bottom, it wasn't in a hunched, bent posture like before. This time, he kept falling until his arms stretched straight up over his head. They looked grotesquely long, and stuck out unnaturally far from his shoulders. There was no scream this time. I thought perhaps he might have passed out, but then saw that he was just in shock. I waited five, ten seconds, and then it came, a long, drawn-out, inhuman wail.	I writhe in pain, I am pain, only pain. I howl in anguish, the pain searing at my mind. No, not again, not again.
For good measure, I cranked him up to full height and let him drop again. That got another scream out of him. Then I released the rope from the ring bolt and used the winch to ease him down to the ground. He collapsed onto his side and quivered. I went over to him and untied the rope from his wrists. It had cut into him, leaving angry, bleeding welts. He was unable to move his arms at all, and just lay there with his eyes closed.	He pulls me up and I scream, I fall again and I scream. I am on the floor, now, a shock wave of pain burning like fire through every fibre of my body. I am numb. I am only aware of the pain and the hatred for this kinky bastard. I close my eyes. I am going to puke. My mind wanders, I am far away, my mind shifts from the excruciating pain.
I let him lie there for a while, gabbling under his breath in what I assumed was Italian. His voice was a harsh rasp, drained of power by all his recent screaming. He was now capable of only a soft barking noise, and could make no sounds that might be heard outside this room. Having no need to muffle his voice any longer, I unbuckled the hood and took it off his head. His thick black hair was matted down with sweat, and he stank of fear and hot leather. I lowered my face toward his and sniffed deeply, savoring the intoxicating scent. But as I did, my nose was assaulted a less pleasant smell, and I looked over to see a watery yellow stream running from his shrunken penis. Ick. Fortunately it was aimed away from me, but as the puddle expanded, it first touched and then soaked Fred's thighs and waist. Freddy-boy seemed dazed, sleepy. I waited a bit longer to see if he would come around on his own, but as the minutes ticked by I began to get impatient. I retrieved my knife from my table to see if that might perk him up a bit.
I slapped his face a few times. "Come on, Fred, break time's over. Wake up! Time to go on with the show." I kept calling in that vein while I used the knife to open up a line on his abdomen. Blood began to seep from the wound, but I hadn't cut deeply enough to allow him to bleed out on me. There was too much still to be done.	Then, slowly, I come back. I lie in agony, spent. I want to die, to end this torture. I open my eyes. I realise I pissed myself. There is a large pool of piss. He is approaching. He has his knife. "A little break and then it is time to go on with the show. It's becoming late. And we have plenty of things to do, do you know it, little pig?" He cuts. I feel the stabbing at my belly. I scream. "Just to wake you up completely. You were a bit drowsy...."
Finally I could see that he was all the way back. I thought about giving him a friendly punch in the shoulder but decided it might send him off to La-La-land again, so instead I just left him lying there while I set up the next phase of the evening's entertainment.	Blood is running from the wound, not a deep one, but painful. And now he is disappearing again.
There wasn't a huge amount of preparation to do, but I did want to give my gear a final trial run before hooking it up to Fred. I kept my eye on him, glancing over a few times each minute while I worked. I wasn't sure whether he would just lie there, or try to use his illusory freedom - after all, he was totally unrestrained - to make a bid for escape. Frankly, I didn't care which. There was no way out for him, but it would be amusing to watch him try.	I am dead. But I want his death, too. I try to think, to keep the pain in a corner and to think. I cannot use my hands. But I can use my feet. There is blood on the floor, blood and piss. I could write something for the police. But he would see it. I look around. There are some carpets, plastic carpets, very near, I can reach them with my feet. I stretch my legs, I cannot move without causing myself pain, but I want vengeance.
I couldn't tell whether he was trying to head for the stairs or just flailing around in agony. He was moving around, but didn't seem to be doing so in any purposeful way. Mostly it looked like he wast just smearing blood and urine around on the floor. I could not imagine why he would do that rather than lie still and try to ease his agony, but hey, the choice was his.	I reach the carpets, I push them away with my feet. I shudder in agony. I put my right big toe into the pool of blood and I begin to write: NON GARY But I cannot go on, my energy is ebbing. It is a strain to move my foot. I have to go on. I have to do it. He has to pay. IL SUO VICINO Why did I write it in Italian? I don't know, I hope it's enough, I cannot write anymore. I push the carpet back to hide the words I wrote, hoping the movement won't delete the writing. The pain from moving even slightly is terrible.
And he was helping me, in a way. After all, the point was to make this crime scene so gruesome, so gory, that the police and the courts would be horrified enough to lock Gary up for the rest of his life. By spreading blood around, Fred was saving me the effort of having to do it myself. I chuckled under my breath.	I don't know if they'll see it. They have to see it! If they find a corpse... a corpse. My corpse. And suddenly I realise. I knew it, of course, I know that I am going to die, that I have no hope, but now I can SEE my naked corpse in the obituary. I shudder, but I know I am doomed. I'll be revenged! I want to think that he'll die in a prison, in a madhouse.
By the time I had the table and materials ready, Fred was still humping around on the floor like a worm, arms dragging lifelessly alongside. A pathetic but beautiful sight.	He is coming.. I hope he won't notice the carpets. But he is not looking that way.
"Ready to squeal some more, little piggy?" I asked. He tried to cower away from me, but of course he couldn't escape. Ah, I love that feeling of power! Forget booze or drugs, THIS is the best high ever! Three hours ago, if I had met this muscle-hunk on the street, he wouldn't have given me the time of day. Or if he had, it would have been to beat the crap out of me. He was just like Gary, indeed just like all those others, from elementary school all the way to today. So arrogant in their good looks, so confident in their muscular strength. His kind loves to walk all over guys like me, guys who don't have their looks or their build. And yet look at him now: crawling on the floor, totally helpless, quaking in fear of little old me! Who's got the power now, you little turd? I bent down and showed him the knife I was holding. "The show must go on, you know," I said.	"Ready, little pig?" I am not ready, I want to stop, but of course I have no chance. This is his play, I am just a toy in his hands. You know, the show must go on!"
He closed his eyes. "Open your eyes," I said, then immediately regretted it. One of my rules is: never give a command to a victim that he can disobey. I shouldn't have ordered him to open his eyes unless I was prepared to slice off his eyelids so he couldn't possibly close them. But I had done that with victim #2, and it hadn't had the desired effect. I had hoped to compel him to watch everything I did to him; instead, it had the opposite effect as his eyes kept filling with blood that he couldn't blink away.	I close my eyes. I don't want to see him anymore. "Open your little eyes!" But I keep them closed, completely closed. I think they'll find him, they'll arrest him, he'll spend his days in an asylum.
I brushed the tip of the knife across his cheek, then hoisted him up and began to carry him to the table. He was heavy, and I wasn't graceful about it. I couldn't just drag him, though, because I needed to get him up on top of the table I had prepared for him, and he wasn't going to get up there voluntarily.	The point of the blade is against my left cheek. He cuts. I bite my lips.. I don't want to scream. He lifts me, a wave of pain runs through my body. I don't understand what he is doing. He bends and I see his hair near my eyes, covered by a thin film of plastic. The idea strikes me. An evidence: his hair, his blood.
Suddenly, I saw stars as a sharp pain ripped through the back of my skull. The son-of-a-bitch had bitten me!	I bite, with all my force. I bite his head, tearing his hair and lacerating his skin. I can feel his hair in my mouth. I keep it between my teeth and my cheek. They'll find it.
"FUCK!" I shouted, dropping Fred to the floor. "You... you..." Words failed me.	He screams and he releases me. I fall. The pain is stunning, I almost faint. He is in a frenzy of rage. "You... you!"
I slapped my hand to the back of my head and it came away bloody. Damn! The little shit must have bitten right through the plastic sheet covering my head. It hurt like hell, and I hopped around for a bit trying to cope with the pain. Oh, he was going to pay for that! I almost went after him with the knife right then.	Some drops of blood fall from his hair. He puts the blade against my throat.
But I soon got my thoughts back under control. After all, he had simply been lashing out in the only way I had left him. He would need to be punished, of course, but it could wait because I had a bigger problem to deal with first: physical evidence. Traces of skin cells could be explained away, but it would be much harder to come up with a plausible excuse if the cops ever started asking why my blood was found here. I would have to clean it up.	Then he stops. He looks at me. He checks himself and he smiles.
"You're going to get a little break," I told him, "while I destroy every trace of the evidence you tried to leave. But when I'm done, you're going to get a little something extra for what you did. A bonus, say."	"You'll have a little break, you deserve it, but when I'll have destroyed every trace, you'll have a little extra, a bonus for this."
I was done being kind. This time I dragged Fred over to the table by his arms, only lifting him up when I had him right next to the table. The pain from his shoulders was enough to ensure that he didn't try anything else while I was moving him into position. I laid him flat on his back on top of the table. The table was sturdy, so it wouldn't be going anywhere as he struggled, but it was narrow so that his arms flopped over the edges and dangled down on either side. I ran a rope underneath the tabletop, then looped it across his chest a few times before tying it in place. I hoped this would frustrate him greatly - the knot was a simple one, easy to untie if he could only manage to lift his hands up to his chest, which of course he wouldn't be able to do. One more rope went around his waist. Then I tied his ankles to a spreader bar, holding them about three feet apart. Finally, I attached the spreader bar to the winch and lifted it until his legs were stretched up toward the ceiling. Fred kept mumbling while I was working, but I couldn't make out the words. I didn't much care what he might have to say, anyway.	He grabs my wrists and he begins to pull! The pain is so intense that I nearly faint. It's like my arms were torn from me. I try to scream, but I cannot, I only sigh, certainly this son of bitch is delighted to hear me. Then he lifts me. What does he want to do, now? Is he going to let me drop again. No, please, don't. I cannot stand it, I cannot. There is the table under my back, he is laying me on the table. What is he preparing, this kinky bastard? When does everything end? I want the end, I want to die. I cannot stand anymore. He has a rope, he is tying me. The chest, the waist, the ankles. What is he planning, what kinky idea is floating in his shitty mind? I am in panic, now. I should try to check myself, but it is useless, completely useless. And now?! What's happening now? He is lifting my legs, up and up. "You, son of bitch, you... You'll spend your life in a madhouse, they'll find you, you cannot escape." He remains silent. I hate him, I hate him.
Once he was secured, I started cleaning up the mess. First I got a bandage over the wound, then sealed up the plastic sheet as best I could. It was hard to do, behind my head as it was, but the wall mirrors helped. Then I started searching for blood droplets. There didn't seem to be much of mine, but I really couldn't be certain. One red blotch look very much like another... Perhaps my best choice would be to make sure that the room became so liberally splashed with Fred's blood that any of mine would be like the proverbial needle in the haystack. That fit well with the plan, anyway.	He disappears. He is going to clean the floor, he was furious because he doesn't want to leave any trace. But I have some of his hair in my mouth, between my teeth and my left cheek. If they open my mouth, they'll find it. And I SEE it again. My corpse and a doctor opening my mouth, a corpse's mouth, looking for traces. I shudder. He cleans with great care the floor where some drops of his blood fell. He wants to destroy any evidence against him. He works for a long time. I can breathe.
When I was certain I was no longer shedding DNA bits into the room, I went back over to Fred. I cleaned a trickle of blood off his lips. It was probably his, but there was no sense taking the chance it might be mine. "OK, you had your break," I said when I had finished. "Time to get back to work."	Then he comes back. He cleans my lips, too. But he is lost. He looks at me and he says: "OK, you had a pause. Time to work, now."
I grasped his cock - still satisfyingly limp! - and balls with my gloved hands, squeezing both his intact nut and his destroyed one between my thumb and fingers. He tried to howl, but what came out sounded like sandpaper on wood.	He takes my nuts and my cock into his hands. I scream: the pain from my left nut is excruciating.
"I could start here," I said. "What do you think?"	"I could begin from here. What do you say about this?"
"You are a kinky bastard!" he shouted. I chuckled, then released his doomed jewels. Their destruction would come later.	"You are a kinky bastard!" He laughs. I hate him.
Next I picked up the butt plug and showed it to him. It was made of cold steel, six inches long and more than two inches thick at its widest point, narrowing to a half-inch-thick waist that would hold it in place once it was inserted. It also had a small projection on the end that I would be making use of later. I greased it up, then began working it into his ass. It was slow going, which was not too surprising given the thing's size, but I eventually crammed it in place. Just to make sure it stayed put, I slapped a strip of duct tape across it, securing it to his hairy ass cheeks.	He has something in his hand. What is it? He is showing it to me. It seems to be a butt-plug, but it's too large, too big, it cannot be. And suddenly I realize: he lifted my legs to expose my ass. He wants to put this thing into my ass. He is mad, but yes, he is mad, I know it. How can I stop a madman? I am not a psychiatrist. Perhaps there are words to say, it is possible to stop him, but how, how? He is greasing the butt-plug and I shiver. Now he is approaching. I have to relax, it will be less painful. Relax, let my asshole... Now, he is pushing. The plug is entering. OK, until now it is OK, my ass is not exactly a virgin one. OK, he stops. It is not so big. I can stand it. He is pushing again, the pain is increasing. I have to relax, to relax. I hope the largest part entered now, I couldn't stand anymore. NO! NO! Please, don't. I close my eyes, the pain is too strong. NOT MORE! NOT MORE! It's ripping my innards. My bowels ache. NO! It's a stake, a stake impaling my ass. Now, now it's done. Finally. It's painful to have such a large plug in my ass, I cannot stand it, I have to expel it. I have to...
I lowered his legs down, disconnected them from the spreader bar, and tied them to either side of the narrow table. His knees were bent at ninety degree angles; one rope at his knees held them down onto the table's surface and two more fixed each ankle to a leg. I could see him straining to expel the invader from his ass, but it wasn't budging. Next I pulled out my other invader - a slender steel rod, about five inches long and a quarter of an inch in diameter. I dangled it over Fred's face.	Now this son of bitch is lowering my legs. He is tying them again. The pain in my ass is increasing. I have to free myself. But I cannot, I cannot.
"Know what this is, Fred?" I asked. He grunted something in reply.	I hear his bloody voice. He is moving something in front of my face. He asks me if I know what it is. "Fuck you, you son of bitch. Fuck you!" I can hardly hear my voice. I don't know if he can hear it.
"This is going into your dick," I said. "But there's one little problem. See how it's got a threaded hole in the side? That's there so that I can screw a second rod into the side to hold it in place so it won't slide right out. But that only works if you have a Prince Albert piercing, which I can see you don't. Ergo, you're going to have to get one before I continue."	"This is going... into your dick!" He is smiling and I shudder. He is saying something more, but I don't understand, I don't want to understand. He is talking about a piercing, like Prince. The singer? He is mad and I am lost. I try to free myself, but the ropes are strong and I cannot use my arms.
He began squirming on the table. The ropes held just fine. I set the rod down and picked up a needle, a fat 10-gauger with a wickedly sharp point. I showed it to him, letting him see just how thick it was and how the light glinted off the tip. Then I moved to his waist and picked up his cock in my left hand. Teasing the foreskin back from the head, I pried his piss slit open and gently inserted the needle. When it had gone in about the right distance, I angled it so the point aimed at the underside of his shaft.	He shows me a long needle. I shudder. He is taking my dick. No! Please, don't! He begins to insert the needle. My God, My God, please, please.
"Now ordinarily," I said, "when you get this kind of a piercing, you have to take very careful precautions with sterility, because you don't want to get an infection in this very precious bit of your anatomy. It could interfere with the healing of the piercing and cause you all sorts of other trouble, too. But I think you and I both know that elaborate hygiene precautions are just not necessary in this case, are they? So I'll just go ahead and push..."	He goes on speaking, he is amusing himself, he likes to explain. I hate him. Aaaaaaaaah! He is severing my cock! Aaah! I almost faint, again. It is not the pain, not only the pain. I don't want it. He is going to kill me, he cannot to... Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!
With the needle angled right, I applied pressure. He didn't like that at all. I could see the dent it raised on the underside of his cock. A little more pressure and it poked right through, eliciting more ragged rasps from Fred's torn-up throat. There was surprisingly little blood, only a trickle. I slid the needle out, leaving a nice, round hole behind for me to use later.	I see a soldier severing my cock, I hear bombs exploding and wounded soldiers shouting, yelling. For a brief moment, I am not here, I am far away, in another land of death and despair, where men are fighting and killing. I am wounded, I am going to die, my enemy will have his trophy. Then I come back to this room and I see him, his smile. I hate him, but I am completely spent. I cannot speak anymore.
Next I picked up the rod, slathered it with grease, and set it in place at the tip of his cock. I stretched the lips open and slowly began to slide the rod into his dick. It wouldn't go in easily. I kept having to slide it out to apply more lube. With each try, it slid deeper and deeper into his cock until on about the fifth try, I got it in far enough that the hole in its side reached the piercing I had just made. I squeezed the second rod through the still-bloody piercing and fumbled around until I felt the two pieces mesh together. A few twists of the smaller bar and I was done. Fred now had four inches of steel buried deep in his dick, held in place by a second bar sticking out the underside of his cock. Another inch protruded from the tip. I flicked the exposed end a bit, enjoying the way he twitched each time I hit it with my finger.	Now he has a rod in his hands and he approaches it to my dickhead. I don't feel the needle, he slid it out. He is inserting the rod into my cock! I try to struggle, but it is useless, I am tied and he has my cock in his hands. Pain, more pain. He is pushing and pushing. It's a red-hot iron. I yell, but I can hardly hear the sound of my voice. Again the world disappears. Three soldiers are kneeling around me. They are laughing, while a fourth soldier is cutting my dick. "A good prize!". He shows it to his companions. I come back to reality. This son of bitch is playing with my dick. I don't know what he did, but every time he touches it, the pain increases. Then he stops. A little pause. Time to breathe.
Time for the next step. I knew this would get a good reaction from him, and I was not disappointed. I held up a pair of wires in front of his eyes. He registered what they were, and then absolutely exploded. The table shook and rocked as he fought to break free. His arms swung around like pendulums, but my five simple ropes were enough to hold him immobilized.	He is showing me something. What is it? Wires. Wires? The plug in my ass is a iron one and the rod in my dick too. No, it is not possible. No! NO! NO! I struggle, I cannot stand it, I cannot...
"I see you can guess what's about to happen," I said. "Well, I won't keep you waiting." The wires ended in alligator clips. One clamped on to the little protrusion of the butt plug, the other clipped smartly onto the PA rod. The wires led to a dimmer switch, a little $2.00 hardware store thingy intended to provide ambience in a dining room. His struggles stopped; I imagine he was wondering what the next step would feel like. His eyes were glued to me as I made sure the switch was on its lowest setting, then slipped the plug into the wall outlet. Now I had a complete circuit. Electricity would come out from the wall through one wire and return through the other, but the only way it could get from one wire to the other was by traveling through Fred's dick to his ass, with his prostate gland sitting smack dab between the two. Right now, with the dimmer switch providing a large resistance, no current was flowing. But that would change.	"You guess what's going to happen to you...!" I cannot see what he is doing, but I know it. He is connecting the plug in my butt and the rod in my dick. And now he is inserting the plug into the current-tap. No, please, don't, don't.
This was the first time I had played with electricity this way, and I wasn't entirely certain what to expect, so I took it easy. Slowly, ever so slowly, I cranked the switch higher. There was no reaction from him at first, so I kept turning the dial. Then all of a sudden, once the switch reached a certain point, things changed rapidly. The first hint was a twitch in his dick. He started moaning a bit, but I think it was more in anticipation than from actual pain. Then the pain hit, and it was obvious when it did: the moan changed to a series of shouts and he began to struggle harder against the ropes. There was still no visible indication from his dick, though, except for that slight twitch. Turning the dimmer slightly further brought his screams to a new level, and he began bucking his hips in a way that might have been voluntary or might have been electrically induced; I just couldn't be sure.	The first shock is not too strong, I can bear it. I grind my teeth, but it is not so terrible. I know he is going to increase it, I know it. I am sweating. The shock is stronger now, it's like having something hot into my cock and my ass. I moan. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah! The pain in my cock is unbearable. I cannot stand it. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah! My cock, my cock is going to explode. No, please, don't, don't. My ass too, my ass, no, please, don't, don't. The shocks are less strong, now, and again the world disappears. The soldiers are laughing, they are fucking me, one in my ass and one in front of me. I haven't a dick anymore, he is fucking my wound. I slowly come back, I am in this room. I am crying. I close my eyes, I don't want to see anymore. I want to die. He'll kill me, now, he'll kill me. The soldiers will kill me, no, there aren't any soldiers, he is... he is...
I set the dimmer switch down for a minute to stroke myself through my pants, making sure Fred could see me doing it... or could have if he hadn't decided to squeeze his eyes shut. He stubbornly refused to open them, though, so I decided to make him do the stroking. I lifted his arm up and placed his hand over my crotch so he couldn't help but notice the reaction I was having. His hand spasmed, clenching and releasing my cock repeatedly until I nearly went over the edge and had to back away quickly and take a few deep breaths.	Now he is lifting my arm. Pain, pain. My hand is touching... his cock, he has a boner, the man enjoys it, I want to grab it, to tear it apart, I want to castrate him... The soldier ...
Taking up the dimmer switch again, I dropped the intensity to zero. He deflated like a balloon, sagging against the table. I let him rest for a minute, then cranked the switch up again. He tautened up like a violin string, and I turned that metaphor over in my mind a few times, thinking of how I was the violinist, the dimmer switch was my bow, and he was my string, singing in response to the touch I applied to him...	The shocks stop. I can breathe. I am exhausted. I think I still have his hair in my mouth. I can feel it. It's good to know I'll be avenged. The shocks again! My cock is exploding. I cannot bear it, I cannot... A vision, again, the soldiers torturing me, they want to know, they want... but I haven't anything to tell... I see him, this son of bitch looking at me, no, it is not the son of bitch, it's a soldier, he wants to know the password, but I don't... NO, NO! I look at him, at his smile. I hate him.
I experimented with the current level for a while, finding out what levels of pain I could cause him. It was interesting to watch, because throughout it all, there was no visible indication that I was hurting him. Current flowed through him at various levels and all I could see was his reaction. It wasn't like dislocating his shoulders, where it was obvious what I had done to him. This was invisible torment. I could see why electrical torture appealed to repressive third-world governments - agony galore with no inconvenient marks on the victim afterward.	The shocks again! My cock is exploding. I cannot bear it, I cannot... My senses are starting to numb. I go out of consciousness. The rooms vanishes, the soldiers, they are not soldiers, they are devils, they are fucking me with their huge hot cocks. Their nails are tearing apart my cock. They are ravaging my ass. The fire, the fire is devouring my innards. He...
Finally I left the switch on a setting right on the line between pain that was uncomfortable but tolerable and pain that utterly blinded him to any other sensation. "Now," I said, "it's time to talk about that little biting incident." Fred tried to say something in reply, but it was utterly unintelligible.	The pain is stronger and suddenly I am conscious again. I open my eyes, I can see him, his smile. I would give everything I have to stop this smile, but I haven't anything, I am just a dead man. I cannot breathe. The shocks are less strong, now. He is saying something, but I cannot hear him. I try to answer: "You... you..." I scream and the world is disappearing.
"We're nearing the end of our time together," I said. "After I'm finished playing with the electricity, I'm going to make a small cut in your belly and start removing your internal organs. Intestines, kidneys, spleen, stomach, liver... the works. I'm going to take them out, one by one, and strew them around the room so as to make an incredibly gruesome crime scene for the cops to find.	He is telling me something, he'll take all my organs out of my body. He is mad, he is mad. He is speaking, he is telling his intentions, he is mad. He goes on speaking and speaking, but his voice is fading, it's far, so far...
"You will almost certainly not survive the process. You will lose a lot of blood, and you will go into shock, and I suspect your body will simply shut down before I'm finished. But just in case you somehow stay alive all the way to the end, I want you to know that I'll be leaving your heart and lungs in place. There will be no quick exit for you that way. "And when I finally get home after all my work tonight, you know what I'm going to do? I am going to rub out the most mind-blowingly, stupefying intense load of spunk you can possibly imagine. I'm talking about the orgasm to end all orgasms. After all the stimulation I've built up from working you over, it'll last for hours. Days, maybe." I looked him in the eye. He stared up at me, eyes vacantly pleading. "But you," I continued, "have already blown your final load. Now, I had been planning to allow you to die a man. But that nasty bite of yours demands some kind of response. And so I'm going to remove your remaining testicle. When you die, it will not be as a man but as a eunuch, a non-man, a creature unworthy of the adjective 'male'.	I am impaled in front of a crowd and a man is smiling. He has a torch in his hand, I can feel the flame approaching my cock. My cock is burning, it is burning... I wake up suddenly. I don't realize where I am, I don't remember anything. Then, suddenly, everything comes back. I look at him, at my murderer. He is smiling. With my tongue I can feel his hair. He is lost. But now even this doesn't matter. I only want to rest, to die. I am exhausted. My body aches, but the pain is confused, I couldn't say where it comes from, I only feel it in my whole body.
"Say good-bye to your prize, Fred. Right now."	"Time for your prize!"
I took one more length of rope and wrapped it around the base of his ball sac, pulling it as tight as I could get it and tying it off. It was kind of exciting, working so close to the electricity that was still coursing through Fred's body. I was touching the circuit but not part of it, so I was effectively immune to it. It couldn't hurt me, couldn't touch me. Nothing could touch me!	I can feel his hand grabbing one of my nuts. My only nut, I remember.
After tying his ball, I showed Fred the knife in my hand, then brought it down to his crotch. It sliced easily through the taut skin. The pressure of the rope caused the nut to try to squeeze out of the hole I was making before it was even large enough to fit through. As soon as there was enough room, it popped free and fell to the table. I used the knife to sever the cord holding it to his body, then picked it up and held it over Fred's face. He was trying so hard to scream, but nothing was coming out of his throat.	The knife. He is going to cut my nut, to revenge himself. NO! NO! But I cannot stop him. My nut aches, the pain is becoming stronger. And then it explodes, neat, stronger than ever. I yell, but I cannot hear my voice.
"I should put this in your mouth," I said. "An object lesson in the consequences of biting your superiors. But you might choke on it, and I don't want you checking out early. So instead..." I threw his testicle over my shoulder, not even bothering to watch where it landed. It was, after all, just a piece of garbage. He croaked something, but I could see in his eyes he wasn't completely with me any more.	He goes on speaking and speaking. Stop him, please, stop him, I hate his voice. I hate him. I...
It's a shame, it always seems that a victim's mind is more fragile than his body. Inevitably, there comes a point where he realizes that he's already dead even though his heart is still beating. His mind gives up - dies - but his body stubbornly keeps clinging to existence for a while longer. Fred had clearly reached that point. There was nothing further I could threaten him with. No amount of pain could provoke him to further terror.	The room disappears. They are going to shoot me. They drag me, I cannot stand. They tortured me, my body aches. They are going to kill me. The sergeant is smiling, he has a sadistic smile. He enjoys the idea of killing me. I hate him, I hate him.
I was getting tired. It was late, there was still a lot of work to be done, and Fred had passed the point where he was interesting to me. I've learned after doing this a few times that most of the joy is in the anticipation, not the actual doing. Now it was just work to ensure that the appropriate person got blamed. So I worked. I very quickly cranked the dimmer switch up as far as it would go, holding it there for an eternal second before pressing the switch off. The room lights actually dimmed. Fred practically levitated off the table. Only the ropes held him down. After I turned off the current, I saw a tiny wisp of smoke coiling lazily up from where the lips of his penis stretched to meet the invading metal. Then I disconnected the wires, leaving both rods in place.	A violent shock, bullets entering my cock, my ass, they are shooting me, no, it isn't, the man, the madman, he is... the shocks. I scream or perhaps I just try to scream.
After that, it was pretty mechanical. I used the knife to open up a four-inch long slice right through his navel, cutting through skin and muscle until I could see the pale grey coils of his intestines. I reached my gloved hand in, grabbed hold, and started pulling. Out it came, ridiculously long, so long it was impossible to imagine how the whole thing had once fit inside that taut belly, like watching a dozen clowns climb out of a Volkswagon. The stench was appalling. I dragged the snake-like thing across the room and draped it over the barre by one of the mirrored walls.	The room is floating. The soldiers again, they are looking at me, they think I am dead, but I am not, I can see them. The pain in my cock and in my ass is terrible, but I am still living. The sergeant, his bloody smiling face over me... he has a knife, he stabs me, I can feel the blade entering my belly, the pain increases, but I am still alive. He is moving the blade, I...
Colon. Appendix. Bladder. I had to use the knife to sever certain key attachment points, but I tried to avoid nicking major blood vessels. Kidneys. Spleen. Or was it a pancreas? Did it matter?	It's black, completely black. Am I in a tomb? They are burying me, but I can feel the blade of the shovel entering my belly...
Gall bladder. Stomach. Liver. Various ducts and tubes and glands and whatever else this meat machine had used to keep itself running. All carefully sliced out, then hurled across the room. Blood was everywhere.	It's cold, it's very cold. The pain is subsiding, but it's so cold.
When I had finished, Fred was actually still breathing. I couldn't imagine how his diaphragm kept working, given that there was now nothing underneath it. Yet on and on it chugged.	I... don't...
It was possible, therefore, that his brain was still working, still perceiving sensations from the outside world, maybe even still generating thoughts. I could not even imagine what it might be thinking right now, if anything. Or the slow, ragged breaths could just be reflex, generated by the deep reptilian part of the brain long after the rest of it had stopped functioning.

I methodically canvassed the room, making sure that I had removed any trace of my presence here and that just enough of Gary was evident to make it seem like he had done a poor job of covering his tracks. That, plus the blood I would smear on Gary's steering wheel before wiping it - almost - all off again, plus the electronic trail from Fred's computer... all the bits and pieces would be just enough to convince a jury that Gary was a monster who should be locked up for life. By the time I was done, Fred's body had finally gone still.

The truly smart thing to do, of course, would have been to get out of town right away. The police would eventually follow the trail I had left them, but it might take them a while to put all the pieces together. And a truly prudent man would have used that time to make a clean escape just in case they somehow saw through the deception and deduced the real story. But I wanted to watch the scene play out, and that turned out to be my undoing.

Sure enough, eleven days after the gruesome murder of Ferdinando "Fred" Corotelli made national news, the police showed up at the condo building. They weren't there for Gary, though; they had come for me. As they led me out of the building in handcuffs, I could see Mrs. Jablonski standing next to Wanda Ermqvist, both of them pursing their lips and wearing "I told you so" expressions on their bovine faces.

How had they figured it out? Well, it turns out that Freddy-boy was smarter than I had given him credit for. I seriously underestimated him, in fact. In hindsight, it was because of his poor English. It's so easy to make the mistake of concluding that someone who doesn't speak clearly must not be able to think clearly either. That's a mistake I won't be making again.

While I had been setting up his electrocution, Fred had used the time and his own blood to paint the words "not Gary but his neighbor" on the floor. And he wrote it in Italian, which led the cops to believe it was really his writing and not just another red herring. But more than that, the little twerp had not bitten me just to lash out, as I had thought. No, he had deliberately chewed through my plastic evidence-suppression cloak to get a sample of my skin and hair, which he held in his mouth the entire time after that.

I have to give him a lot of credit. He managed to keep a scrap of my hair between his teeth and his cheek the whole time I was zapping his dick, slicing off his one remaining ball, and generally tearing his body apart. What strength of will! His capacity to plan may not quite have rivaled my own, but he sure came close. To have conceived of such an idea on short notice and under duress... he was more than just a hunky body, he was an impressive mind, too.

So, here I sit, in my six-by-eight foot cell, isolated from all human contact for twenty-three hours a day, unable to see the sun or feel the wind on my skin. It's a dull, dull, dull existence, and one would presume that the prospect of spending the rest of my life in a place with so little mental stimulation would drive someone of my intellectual abilities out of his mind.

But boredom doesn't bother me, if it's for a greater cause. I am using the time to plan my escape. The thought of spending the rest of my life locked up in this rat hole doesn't drive me crazy because I have no intention of staying here that long. One of these days, I will be free again. Sometimes, I spend the long hours fantasizing about what I will do with my liberty once I have attained it. I imagine dropping in on Gary, or saying hello to Ferdinando's family, or having a nice little tete-a-tete with the detective who wouldn't settle for the easy, obvious answer and kept digging until he found me. Or I imagine picking up and starting a new life, perhaps in Mexico where law enforcement has a more relaxed attitude than in the U.S.

Of course, such musings distract me from my real work: planning my escape. But that's not a big problem, because I have nothing but time. Already I have come up with three different ways that I could make my getaway if the right opportunity comes along. And I can wait years, if necessary, for the right opportunity to come along.

After all, it takes a long time to prepare a truly satisfying plan.

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