When Darkness Strikes (Closed for AbrasiveYouth)

Red against white, so stark – the finality of it. It was transfixing, mesmerising with all it promised. It’s the most dangerously beautiful thing she had ever seen. The burning ache was delicious; it transcended from any normal pain into a throbbing wash of desire that raced straight between her thighs. She gasped, breaking the silence, her skin flushing with arousal, release. But there was movement in front of her; she glanced up, looking at herself in the mirror. Her reflection grimaced, and instantly the pleasure was forgotten. Kirra looked down.

Disgust washed through her, shame, her weaknesses were written in every little bloody droplet. A flick of her wrist turned on the hot tap, it heated quickly and soon enough steam rose to shroud the little mirror in fog. Her reflection blurred out, finally she was alone, and no one was watching her addiction. She glanced back down at the splatter of red in the perfectly white porcelain sink, but the moment was lost. She made a face, scooping up tissues and wadding them against the condemning slash across her wrist. Other silvery scars kept it company; the heavy bracelet used to cover them was pushed up high on her forearm. It almost looked like a manacle in the artificial bathroom light.

Time to clean up the mess.

When she left the bathroom there was nothing that remained to tell of her dirty little secret. The black bracelet hung on her wrist as normal, the flesh on either side unblemished. She moved silently down the hall, pausing to look over the handrail to the floor below. Her mother still worked silently in her office, the door still open. She hadn’t seemed to have moved an inch. That pang Kirra always got was faded now, nothing like the heart wrenching twist she use to get when she was younger, and her mother had first begun to let her work consume not only her own life, but that of her only daughter.

Parenting rules had been thrown to the wind the first time her mother caught her sitting at her desk, leafing few all the crime scene photos. She’d been eleven, mature for her age, or so she’d been told. Her mother had gone to shout, in till her little girl had glanced up in confusion, holding out one of the pictures. “What was in the way?” She asked innocently, and indirectly found the one thing all of the other detectives working the case had missed. Missing blood splatters - there’d been more then two people in that room.

After that, Kirra had gotten to look at her mothers ‘little picture collection’ more then a few times. She had a way of viewing things that allowed her to easily pick up on what others missed. Puberty was filled with images of the dead, blood splatters, torn up rooms and mutilated bodies. She never had a nightmare though, not once. Instead Kirra began to look forward to the sessions where her mother actually looked at her again, saw her, instead of the glazed look she possessed ever since Kirra’s’ father had run off with his secretary, of all women. Typical.

Years passed, and she did begin to have dreams. Dark twisted fantasies where she woke up with skin that felt too tight and an ache she didn’t understand arching through her. Puberty struck, hormones raged. She grew up and grew into her figure, hips swelled, breasts filled out and she lost all her puppy fat. Her mother got a promotion, so they moved from suburbia into fast passed city life. At her new school Kirra found she was drawing attention, her loner status from her old school refused to apply. She went on a few dates, kissed a few boys, but left unsatisfied. Something was wrong with her, she decided.

Kirra moved away from the railing, walking down the steps slowly, her eyes on her mothers door. She’d lost her virginity to a nice boy from up the road; they’d snuck out and gotten drunk in an empty house. One thing easily led to another. The sense that something was missing remained though, and she was unsaited and never called him again – nor bothered to indulge in any other male. It began to get worst, the world would slow and she felt cut off from it, from herself. She went through every day motions without really paying attention, until one day she wasn’t sure if she was dead or alive.

That was the day Kirra met Pain.

She began to feel normal again; whenever the dark desire rose she’d disappear. A quick slash, a flash of pain and the metallic scent of blood would fill the air. And she’d be free once more – for a while at least.

Kirra paused by the office door, leaning against the frame, looking in. Her mother worked in silence, and the house was always to quiet. Music never played unless Kirra put it on, and lights were always meticulously turned off when not in use. Her mother was strange, odd in a different way to that of her daughter. Kirra knew this, welcomed it even, the oddness that is – not the cause. Her mother had a life-affecting phobia, had it ever since her husband left, after spending fifteen years being emotionally abused by him. Haphephobia it’s called, the fear of being touched.

Of course, one can see how that might affect the development of a child, especially when her puberty is spent around images of pain and unnatural death. With nothing to ground her, and no motherly affection to work with. Kirras world matured with shadows. She was unaffected by the comments she received on her looks, her poise. She had a slender figure, but with the hourglass flair of hips and breasts, her hair fell in blonde curls around her face. She might have almost seemed angelic, with her stormy blue eyes, even to herself, if Kirra wasn’t aware of the darkness underneath. The darkness she didn’t know how to channel correctly – if there was a correct way to do it.

“Have the new photos come in?”

Her voice breaks the silence, but in a comfortable way, she’d long been use to the atmosphere in their big house. Her mother glanced up, and the resemblance was obvious in the cheekbones, eyes and colouring. The older woman sighed, leaning back and rubbing her eyes. Kirra tilted her head, running a hand down her stomach to smooth the material of her black singlet top and skirt, that revealed the soft planes of her slender legs.

“Not till tomorrow, they’re still cataloguing the latest crime scene.”

Her mother had been on the same case for the past six months, a serial rapist and murderer who seemed to be getting to comfortable with his untouchability in their city. Each dumpsite was meticulously clean of any evidence. Kirra was becoming obsessed with the case nearly as much as her mother, though she knew for entirely different reasons. She examined each photo closely, seeing the detail and power that went into each murder. It made her skin itch with dark needs all over again. She couldn’t understand it; no male had really affected her enough to understand arousal in all its glory.

“Well I’m going to take Sash for a walk.” The young woman said with a sigh, turning away. There was a grunt of reply, and another sense of loss washed through her. Her mother expected her to look after herself, expected her to know what she was capable of and what was smart. It saved time on arguments and the like, other girls her age probably dreamed of having this much freedom. But it’s funny how something just like a mothers concern can make you feel loved. No warning of safety was mentioned; no reminder there was a psycho on the loose with a taste for victims her age. Kirra saw no point in moving out; it was like having her own house anyway.

She collected their little Pomeranian, who was probably only just more loved and cared for then Kirra herself, and stepped out into the cloudless night. She walked slowly enough to enjoy the sight; breathing in deeply and trying to let the buzzing under her skin disperse in the cooler air. She didn’t pay attention to where she walked - a dangerous mistake to make for any young woman. The small little fur ball at her feet cocked an ear, and began pulling on her leash, Kirra frowned, running fingers through her curls before shrugging and letting the animal pull her forwards.

The air began to change, she don’t know what made her notice it at first. Something thrummed in the night; the silence was like that of a forest after a large predator had passed through. Eerie, and filled with the press of silent presences. Her steps slowed, natural instinct finally catching up, Sash began to whine but a yank on her leash silenced her. Kirra turned a corner, her eyes immediately drawn to movement. The leash fell from her unresponsive fingers to thwack against the stone underfoot, the sound seemed to echo condemningly.

Sash bolted, and didn’t see her mistress again.

Detective Rob Henderson, age forty eight. Twenty five years of forensic science and criminology experience..and he was still completely clueless. A predator was stalking the streets of this fair city. Sure, the crime rate was above average on a daily basis. People were killed every single day, the vast expanses and variety of racial tidings ends in gang fights similar to the wild west. He wasn't clueless about that fact, it was just the way of life here. Punks killing one another off, one by one. What puzzled him so was one particular case. A serial murderer and rapist with his own unique actions and calling cards. Whoever the killer was, he was a fan of the knife. The blade that severed so many fibers and ended their lives after such a brutal struggle. What made this man strangely fascinating was...he skinned his victims. Not all of their flesh, but the faces. All young women, ranging between the age of twenty to twenty five. All cut viciously across their frames, some random locations and others specific entry wounds. Always, the face had been removed from them. But why? This wasn't even his case, just taking a glance at a friends file. Trying to bring an unsolvable case to a head...and bring this sicko to justice.

Here he was, sitting with his much younger partner. A Steven Delorio, fairly new to the homicide division but a career police officer. He had seen crime...but this was unnatural. "Why'd you think he did it, Cap?" mutters Delorio, shaking his head at the images before him. Crime scene pictures, the poor broken bodies of the unfortunate girls. It made the young man sick, pushing the photos to the senior officer. Henderson got quiet, holding his breath at the vile scene. The girls blue eyes were wide open, terrified and locked forever into place. The words "I made you" carved into her chest. "He is creating a different perception for them...its as if hes trying to transform them into something else". Or himself, considering the trophies claimed. He was subtle, despite the viciousness of his attacks. The bodies had all been dumped in prime locations across the city, in places where someone would find them. "Hes wanting recognition for his work..hes proud of it. He wants us to understand what he does, and why". But that's just the thing, they had no idea what possesses a person into such acts. What could shift a persons emotion balance so severely, that this sick fantasy world of his becomes a reality. "I just don't understand.." says the younger detective, his eyes full of concern and hurt. A depressing feeling for the families of these poor girls "To really understand him Delorio...we have to catch him first".

His name is Trevor Rugard, a twenty five year old theater school drop out. One of those kids who had a rich grandmother who died, spend up her money, and was left high and dry over his own high demand. He quickly went from being an occupied and dormant psychopath, to a very active and violent killer within weeks. He took to this extreme lifestyle like a fish to water, as if this was the place he was always searching for. As if killing young women was a true calling, if there was such a thing. A childhood of disturbing ideas and events built him up to the monster he is now.

At the age of five, a young Trevor Rugard found himself in the care of his elderly Grandmother Ruby. His mom, a single waitress with a purse full of prescription drugs, dropped the frightened boy off and never looked back. After all, she was too young and too interested in living to deal with a child. The role of parent was forced upon the widowed Ruby, taking the child in to the best of her ability. Nothing the old lady could do was enough to put a smile on the silent boy, Trevor grew up in a bubble of shyness. He had no real friends to speak of, the kids at school tormenting him on a daily basis. Calling him an orphan and all kinds of hurtful things. When he arrived with a new toy, the other boys would break it. At lunch, the kids would knock over his chocolate milk. He was a pressure cooker, everything was piling and building up. Abandonment was his first issue...he accepted all things will end soon. His relationship with his mother, dead and long gone. The kids in school, non existent. His pet rabbit, dead. Oh yes, his grandmother bought him a companion. Something delicate to bring up the boys spirits. He loved the white ball of fur, truly as much as one could. Still, he found himself with a kitchen knife, stabbing and bleeding the bunny after a frustrating day of youthful school. It screamed out something vicious, a sound of pain the boy would never forget. It was terrifying, a screech of terror and pure pain. It forced the boy to the ground, crying and holding his knees to his chest. Just shaking, the blood of his rabbit staining his blue jeans.

Teenage years went on as awkward as ever, puberty being a real challenge. He was sexually frustrated, unable to learn from his grandmother what a boy his age should be feeling. It was a confusing and angry time, the hormone levels rising beyond normal. The uncomfortable teenage years were harsh on him, learning about sexuality through the influence of his older cousins visits. It built a strange view of the female race. He found them forbidden..and completely unmanageable. Every attempt to talk to one ended the same, his low popularity standings always being a problem. That and his own weird demeanor, his inability to talk to people, or really to feel how others felt. The joy of smiling and laughing at nothing in particular was foreign to him. A nearly alien emotion that meant very little to him. During these troubling times...he met a girl. You know, that girl in school. The one that makes you think different and start considering all those little feelings. The butterflies and all that jazz. It was the only real feeling he had felt in years, besides the sadness of constant social degrading. Her name was Becky, a pretty blond girl with the most deep green eyes you ever saw. It was infatuation, to say the least. He began trying to improve himself, dress better. Comb his hair right, take interest in drama classes. Studying hard to pass his classes...anything to impress her. His teenage crush. Throughout high school, he kept his feelings secret. Waiting down to the last day before summer break started. The courage to ask her out finally rose...and he was rejected as always. Her sly laughter, shaking her head. How could she ever consider dating him? Rejection was his life, but this time things would be different. It broke something inside him, either it be something in his frame mentality, or something beyond his emotional psych. Not his heart, never his heart. That object serves only to pump blood and fuel his body. Nothing more. During that summer, Becky and her boyfriend Tim were found mysteriously murdered. Chopped apart with an axe in Tim's old pickup, out on the twisting roads near the lake. Trevor was there for every blood stained second of it. He caught the boyfriend as he always was, hands buried up Becky's skirt and his mouth latched to her own. It had been days since he had considered it, taking every possible thought into consideration. He waiting until the right moment, walking right up to the car and ripping the driver door open. He chopped once forward, splitting the boy Tim's head apart like a watermelon. The girl screamed for her life, covered in the blood of her boyfriend. She didn't get far, barely ten feet from the car before she was taken down. He duck taped her to the dashboard...and took out every single frustration on her. His pocket knife carved her flesh like paper and pencil. He carved words into her, small phrases. Insulting words. Whore. Slut. Cunt. Bitch. She was forced to her stomach as the true torments began. He raped her over and over, his sexual frustrations rising to the top. Her pain was his pleasure, enjoying every second of her agony. Listening to her beg him to stop, pleading him to let her go. Please...don't kill me. He did just that, as soon as he was finished with her form. He slit her throat and left her there, gargling and bleeding out in her boyfriends truck.

Confusion overtook him for the next several years as the murder was investigated to no success. He stayed with drama, graduating high school with a scholarship to a nice distant college. He moved away to begin his new life, working hard in the theater trying to produce something artistic. He took an interest in Comedy and Tragedy, the masks. Everything about human life could be told by looking at those two masks. Exact opposite of one another, explaining the strongest of our emotions. We all go through the best of times, only to be countered by something tragic. Life was fleeting, as well as love and the attachment that followed. His interest in the female sex was enhanced by these thoughts. Their faces told the same stories as the drama faces did. The same emotions the metal faces experienced, so would they. So did Becky. He found himself dreaming about their faces. Cutting them off. Wearing them. Becoming them...feeling their emotions and seeing life through their eyes. It became an obsession, border lining the most twisted of sexual deviations. At his most tense time, his grandmother dies of old age. In an instant, we was completely alone in the world. It was just another abandonment...and there would be penalties for it. He lashed out again, this time on a college girl from an opposite class. The first series of slayings had built him with a feeling of immortality. He was sloppy with the first, but the small town cops were just not prepared for his level of evil. The big city he was now a resident of would be much different. He found himself hunting the night, walking through the cities and searching for a victim. A subject to transform..to live with. The months passed on...and the body count raised upward. By the end of the year, he had claimed a total of nine victims. All women in the same age group, his preferred flavor. He craved the pain they offered, the sadness in their eyes. The pleasures their resisting bodies gave him. Soon, they were all looking for a serial rapist and murderer. "The Mask Man" the newspapers were calling him, his obsession with faces spreading through the city like wildfire.

Tonight was no different, he was the same blond haired man as before. Dressed in a thick black coat, keeping his form mostly a mystery. The latex gloves that covered his hidden hands, casually resting in his pockets as he strolls. He had become quite the hunter in these past months, making a violent name for himself and his actions. Tonight was hardly a random encounter however...tonight was special. The first time since Becky that he was taking things into a personal perspective. Detectives were on his case, searching for a mysterious killer without a face. He was in the neighborhood of one such police officer, the lead detective on his case. Not her in particular...but her daughter. She was the right age, and he had been walking around the block for over an hour considering his next step. She makes it for him, taking her tiny dog out for a walk. He trails behind, about fifty feet or so. Closing the distance slowly, keeping in the shadows and as quiet as possible. Waiting for that perfect moment to strike. He sees it, the moment. Her dog takes off, leaving a second to strike. Within a second, he was stepping into the dimly lit sidewalk. "Beautiful night, huh?" he says, a voice without a hint of emotion. Not at all. He was a normal sized man, at around six foot in height and around one hundred and eighty pounds. Still, he was larger and more powerful then she was...and in this moment of surprise, there was no surprise in the results. He was upon her life the night itself, his left hand quickly snatching her around the throat. Pressure was applied, preventing any screaming or attempt to escape. His free right hand held tightly to her jacket, slamming her against the wall. Once the oxygen cuts off to the brain long enough, the central nervous system will shut down, causing her to pass out. His pressure increases, tightening around her throat in this struggle. Pressing his body against hers, holding tightly in this life and death struggle. "Go to sleep bitch.." he whispers between clenched teeth.

“Beautiful night, huh?”

The world slowed down, the voice distorts, and everything shudders to a stop. She tries to process what this means, even as instinct is bunching up all her muscles, flooding her body with adrenaline. There wasn’t time though, none at all, it was as though the essence of it had faded away and abandoned her to this fate. She couldn’t breathe. Even before the hand slid like iron around her throat. The presence snatched her off balance, she felt her body slam against the wall, squirming. Her own hands had immediately flown to his, clawing uselessly for him to release.

Then, hardly a second later, as her mind registered the bruising grip on her throat, and his dominating presence had washed through her, smothering her. A dark ache fluttered to life within her, goosebumps raced down either arm, heat pounded between her thighs. She would have gasped, were the option of any oxygen possible. Instead she trembled, easily mistaken for fear as her struggles resumed.

When the fear did come, it was like nothing she could imagine. It was dark, desperate and exhilarating. It made her senses suddenly sharp, she heard the rasp of clothes against each other, the skid of her shoes against the ground as she sort for traction. Each heavy breath against her skin, and the overwhelming lack of her own. Her breathing situation became immediate, her lungs screamed, but even that in itself was intoxicating. Her body was awash with sensation, confusing her further. The sharpness of awareness faded as her blood refused to give up the oxygen to keep her brain alert.

As the shadows pinpointed her vision, her struggles weakened. She tried to make out something about him, anything, even as she felt death creep up on her consciousness. She was sure of it, in that one sublime moment, her miserable, haunted existence on this world would be no longer. She was going to die in this unremarkable alley, with no witnesses, and likely no justice. She’d ponder later why there was never a ‘why?’ She never questioned why her, why was she being attacked, why was he killing her. Perhaps it had all happened to quickly for logic to even slip in, perhaps fate had defined this one moment to perfectly for anything else to interrupt.

She was disappointed with death, she decided. Her life didn’t flash before her eyes, she had no magical epiphany, and all of her questions remained unanswered. There was just him… and the sweeping oblivion. Finally, her body could take no more, and her system shut down. Her eyes fluttered and finally closed, her body sagging against him until it was only his strength holding her up. And her mind escaped, chasing shadows and blood red splatters down a rabbit hole.

It was a while later when she finally slipped from unconscious oblivion into a dark landscape of dreams. A husky voice hissed, “Go to sleep bitch” over and over while hands lacking substance possessed her body. A horizon of faceless figures reached for her, taunted her, their fingertips leaving blood little prints all over her naked body. Eventually, reality grew impatient, tugging on her consciousness like an impatient puppy. The sense of dread grew though as her mind rose from its forced slumber. Her body stirred, eyelids fluttered. She swallowed, wincing at the pain in her bruised throat. This was nothing like the storybooks, she remembered immediately what had happened, her eyes flittering open cautiously into the barest of slits.

Apparently, she hadn’t died after all… yet.

With these same two hands, hes done amazing things. He has composed plays and sonnets. Hes carved people beyond recognizing. In this very same grip, his tight hold on the throat. It had been the last thing many women have seen. A shape in the dark with its claws buried in your neck. A predator savoring the kill, enjoying every kick and twitch its prey offered. She was like the others, beautiful and vibrant. Also willing to fight to the very end, forcing him to shift positions of the hold. Her sharp boot catching his sensitive shin, causing a small grimace. The reaction was another slam into the wall, this time much harder and with the force of his upper body strength. He took this moment for what it was, a struggle for life and death. Between two equally determined parties, both wanting what the other does not. It gave him that certain air, that feeling of power he craved so. To have someones life in your hands...literally in your grasp, and deciding how to end it. What made it that much more interesting is her face. One of frozen terror, her eyes were wide with it. Or maybe it was surprise that she could become a random victim to a murderers will. Nothing in life is random, everything happens for a reason. Her expression forces a grin, enjoying her weakening struggle. She was fading, and fast. The average victim wouldn't be excited about a second of this abduction...but then she wasn't average. Something inside her was enjoying this sudden tension, yet it was unknown to him at this time. All he knew was, he needed to hurry and finish this. He was close against her, enough to hear her lungs squealing for air. Close enough to smell her overwhelming perfume, along with the rising scent of sweat. Pheromones and all, it added to the feminine mystic. One that he took pleasure in exploiting and removing.

She was spirited, it was felt in her reluctance. Finally, she succumbs to the mind numbing unconsciousness. The dreams she would have now...are nothing compared to the nightmare that was awaiting her. She crumbled against his form, his hand finally unclasping around her bruised throat. Her heart was still beating, he could feel its accelerated pace. She was out, for now. His hands searched her pockets, looking for anything of value. Not to himself, but to her mother and the police. A signal for what he had done, a message of his deed. He finds nothing of interest, just lint. After all, she was just taking her hideous little beast for a quick walk. Instead, he strips her of the jacket. Peeling it off her collapsed body, ripping the warm protector and leaving it on the sidewalk. A calling card for the day, let the police know the killer is striking home now. "I should just go in there and kill your slut mother. Its her fault you got picked". He whispered this at her, shaking his head at her feeble frame. They all end up like this, a sack of potatoes with a pulse. He took her in his arms, lifting her up over his shoulder. He had spend way too much time lingering, trying to make a point. Maybe he should write a letter while hes fucking around so much. His car was not far, perched and waiting for the hunters return. He could feel her body lightly stirring, so she was still alive. Barely conscious enough to know whats happening...but not near enough to stop him. She was chosen tonight, and nothing would stop this act now. The suburbia was silent and dark, the mild street lights not hindering his escape in the slightest. He arrives at his car, a black Lincoln he used for transportation. Nothing fancy or flashy at all, a regular and unsuspecting car. Cops barely look at him while he drives it, its inconspicuous and practically used just for transportation. Clicking open the car door, he throws her face down into the backseat. He was pleased with himself this evening, she was a fine catch. What luck the detectives daughter happened to be attractive. It must be his lucky night. Duct tape was used next, forcing her wrists together before stretching the tape around tight. Lets see her break out of several layers of tape. This left him without the worry of her reacting while he was driving home. He didn't bother covering her mouth..he rather enjoyed their voices. Pleading him to just let them go. Of course she wont say anything, she promises. No, he had plans for this one. And he planned on taking his sweet time.

Sitting down in the front seat, he starts the engine up. It hums to life, the lights clicking on as he departs into the night. His destination was his house, a nice city home in a fairly nice neighborhood. No telling what types of freaks are living right next door. If only the sales representative next door knew his quiet neighbor was the serial murderer all the news have been screaming over. It was him, quiet Trevor Rugard. Just your average psychopath who obsesses over the flesh. A feeling of accomplishment washed over him on his casual drive back to the house. He even turns on the radio, searching for any local news programs. Settling on one, he continues focusing on his drive.

"The weather looks like its gonna take a nasty turn for us, but expect those thunderstorms to be out of here by Friday" piped in the announcer, giving the world that familiar friendliness of a radio personality. The voice changes to a more serious tone, explaining a safety warning. "On a more serious note, another victim was found this morning by local residents. Sarah Townsend, age twenty three, left to the grocery store and never returned. Police are still looking for clues to the case, but evidence points towards the Mask Man killer." He just smiles to himself, glancing in his rear view mirror at the collapsed girl in his backseat. "Please, if anyone has any information regarding Sarahs disappearance or murder, please contact your local police station. In lighter news, the Dallas Cowboys are.." The voice is cut short, silenced as he clicks the radio over to some music. He was getting closer to his home, the familiar landmarks promising him the hard parts almost done. It was like coming home from a hard days work, finding an eager and happy housewife with dinner on the table. Instead, he would come home to a dark house and a pit bull guard dog named Sid. The house itself was large, two stories with a small balcony off the front. A click on the dash opens the sliding garage door, allowing him to part the car inside unnoticed. The same click closes the aluminum gate...and closes off hope.

He opens the back door, grabbing a handful of hair with his right hand. His other grasped the taped wrists, jerking her up from her resting place. "Get up bitch, nap times over". Now the real chaotic fun begins, he thought with a small smirk. The girl would be forced awake with his rough authority, his grip strong and without restraint as he dragged her into his house. She would be in much more intense pain now, his sharp gestures as he jerked her around his place of residence. His dog was standing inside, not making a sound. He was a guard dog, not an announcer. If a stranger would of entered, he wouldn't of made a single yip. Instead, he would of leaped on them and tore them to pieces. Good dog. The pit takes a natural snip at the bound girl, circling behind his master. Watching carefully as Trevor brought her into the house. As soon as they entered the living room, she was dropped to the hard wood floor. Like nothing more then a rag doll to use, break and then discard like the rest. But not before taking that pretty face for himself.

Six blocks over, a small white blob of fur was pelting down the street. Sash whined insistently, her leash scraping along the floor behind her. A scent caught her nose, and her body wriggled in relief, dashing across the street. She nosed around a bush before, satisfied, she ran a few more houses up, the scents flooding in more readily now. A house came into view, a light on in only the first room. Home. Safe. Food?

The first thing to come blurrily into view was the curve of the surface beneath her. She recognised the motion and shape to realise she was in the back seat of a car. She didn’t know how long they’d been driving, nor how long she’d been out. From the self-defence classes she knew those who were choked unconscious didn’t remain that way for long periods of time. He may have drugged her, but she felt relatively unhazy nor nauseous. A steady ache was growing in her arms however, demanding attention. She became further aware of her situation; arms bound tightly enough her hands were getting pins and needles. The way her bindings stuck at her flesh and crinkled made her think either gaffa or duct tape. Joy.

She didn’t bother saying a word, deciding for the moment pretending to be unconscious worked more in her favour. He fiddled with the radio, but she was to busy trying to stretch the tape to notice. Until of course, something of interest wormed it’s way into her thought processes.

"On a more serious note, another victim was found this morning by local residents. Sarah Townsend, age twenty three, left to the grocery store and never returned. Police are still looking for clues to the case, but evidence points towards the Mask Man killer."

There was movement in the front seat, Kirra closed her eyes, and all to quickly – pieced it together. She’d heard of epiphanies before, supposed sudden realisations that were of such a magnitude they could change everything. This one did, but it was accompanied with no melodic ‘amens’ or angels trumpeting. This one was like the cold touch of darkness twining up her leg, slithering across her thigh, pressing inside her to curl like a bitch snake of despair in her stomach, snatching the butterflies there clean out of the air. It then slid up her spine, to twine possessively around her heart, squeezing playfully.

The Mask Man Killer.

Oh fuck.

It was a cruel twist, a sick reasoning of fate. Though she highly doubted it was coincidental. She was after all, the daughter of the high profile detective on his case. Her mother had discussed it with her superiors earlier in the week even; no one felt there was any threat to them yet. He’d left no warnings, no indications, just like with everything else. But then, here she was, about to become the next star in her mothers ‘pretty little picture book’.

Immediately her mind dragged up every image she’d ever seen, every picture she’d felt her skin itch over. Each cut, each tortured body, each horrific, skinless face, grinning almost lewdly at the loss of it’s own expression. Careful what you wish for, the bitch snake hissed happily from where it was twined around her pounding heart. She couldn’t dwell for long however, as the car rolled to a stop. Metallic doors rolled up with the soft jerking clatter that reminded Kirra too much of a portcullis, gapping over her head as the car rolled in, then gleefully cluttering shut behind her. The finality in it was breathtaking. All of a sudden the definition between reality and nightmare seemed permeable.

Door opens… door closes… door opens… Pain.

She hissed at the yank on both hair and wrists, all act scattered to the wind as he dragged her out. Her mind and senses were forced to catch up as pulled her unceremoniously into his house, his lair, the den of no return. His grip held a bruising strength that did not relent, and apart from indrawn breaths and hisses she made no other sound. The pain was at her again, sending shudders of electricity down her skin. Her fear could not be denied now though, however it just seemed to heighten the effects. Her skin quivered, aware of every particle that made up him, in all his glory. The figment of all of her nightmarish fantasies.

Death, she presumed, would be a lot more vivid this time around. And permanent

Inside a dog stands tensely, silently. If animals had opinions she’d hate to know what that dogs was at that moment. It had that mean, aggressive look to it that didn’t bode well for anyone who didn’t want to lose fingers… or their throat. The bitchsnake hissed in amusement at her predicament, its tail tickling the under side of her ribs as they constricted at its call. Her breaths were shallow now, and she didn’t have time to catch herself as he dropped her on the ground. People often don’t realise the impact of restrained hands. Especially when forced to fall. They take for granted the ability to brace or balance themselves. The ability, which Kirra lacked now, couldn’t save her from crashing painfully into the wooden floor. Her breaths hissed again, and she twisted off of her bound arms, rising onto shaky knees.

The typical responses, ‘Why are you doing this?’ ‘Please let me go’, ‘Please don’t hurt me’ Ran through her head and were discarded instantly. After all, she had a pretty good idea what happened in response to those in the past, she had after all, seen the pictures. Kirra wetted her lips, her stormy blue eyes never leaving her attacker, but were unclouded by tears or the like. Her curls fell in slight disarray around her face. Seeing his strength, knowing what he stood for, she had the insane urge to provoke him, to see what his rage looked like, what hid behind the mask of his own face – as he kept stealing those of others.

“Do you know who I am?” The words finally slipped from her lips, not in the arrogant, bitchy way of those filled with self-importance, but with a curious resignation. She wanted to know if he’d taken her because of her mother, or if it was just a random twist of fate. It probably wouldn’t change much, either way he had his pleasure planned, and either way her mother would work over time, seeing Kirras missing face everywhere. She wondered idly if her mother had even noticed her absence yet. It was darkly ironic, she supposed. But irony or not, she’d still be dead.

Only time would tell what journey these two would take together. Despite this fact, there was a certain aura about this place. His home, a place meant for comfort and warmth. A place for gathering families and those annoyingly cute dinners. This place was not. Everything was covered in plastic sheeting, from the large dinner table to the black leather couch. Everything seemed either new and unused...or well prepared. Much rather the second statement, he took cautious steps to avoid those pesky blood stains. He had learned from his earlier and more juvenile killings that people are resilient. Most of all, desperate to survive and escape the clutches of his killer. Lessons learned the hard way, one of his first victims nearly escaping his place of murder. She got into the living room, so close to the door before he snatched her by the hair...dragging her down into the dark basement. Ten feet down might as well be six feet under, for none ever survived this underground chamber. His den.

She was crying, a young woman of twenty two. Red haired, dyed artificially to catch that lustrous hue. Enhanced figure, obviously plastic surgery on her breasts. Far larger then her natural petite frame would allow, one of those lustful plastic types. Tear streaked face, her mascara bleeding down her cheeks as she trembled. The man who ripped her from her apartment...the killer, where was he? Gone at the moment, taking a break from the agony he put her through. She was shaking to no end, shivering from the terror and the sheer cold of this place. It was like he had the air conditioner on, for fucks sakes it snowing outside! Duct tapes around her wrists, locking her into place. She was kneeled over a desk, stripped bare of all clothing. Each wrist tied to a desk leg, bound and unable to prevent the horrors from happening. The pain in her back was unbearable, the knife wounds in her back left her with a loss of blood. It was gathered up in small pools at her feet and across the desk. Deep incisions, words that she would never live to see. They were apparently important to the killer, he had chose her specifically for it. It was becoming very clear now what she needed to do. Escape and live...or stay here and die. She was bleeding out, the choices were becoming crystal. She began struggling harder, shaking her wrists violently. Fighting for her life, shaking to no end. Twisting her wrists painfully, fighting to tear the tape. To save her own life. She cries to herself, face down against the desk. Live or die. Live or die. She fights on, pulling roughly to free herself. She tears the tape, her battered hand finally free of its bondage. Fighting back the urge to scream out now, she bites down on her lip. Using her hand to rip the tape off, releasing herself. She stood up, vision blurry from her torment and blood loss. Stumbling forward, naked and bleeding into the hallway. Escaping the back bedroom, dying to escape the house. She leans against the wall, pushing past the hallway and into the living room. The front door...her salvation awaited behind the oak. Life was hers to claim. She reached out, eyes a haze of blood and pain. Suddenly, pressure at her scalp. The killer was there, without a sound to his arrival. He allowed her these last moments before snatching her await from it. A low moan, her last scream of terror. His hand in her hair, gripping tightly and dragging her forward. Arm holding her broken wrist, dragging her towards the cement basement. The last thing she would see would be his masked face. A bloody example of his last victim, a crude reminder of her future. Her life, was his to claim. The words on her back, "Hollywood Bound". She was destined for great things...and so was he.

He had learned from his past mistakes and perfected his art. Killings were flawless now, and absolutely without mercy. The girl in his home was another such victim. To be used to satisfy his various twisted urges upon. She was chosen specifically, much like the others. The difference being this time it was personal. She would be subjected to the entire mind numbing, body breaking experience he offered. His pit bull was larger then she was at the moment, her form crumbled upon the floor. A large brindle pit with a thick square head. Every good psychopath had a dog. Unlike Buffalo Bill, his "precious" was Sid Vicious, a one hundred and fifty pound attack dog. After the last little incident, he thought he would invest in a security system. He stood near her, growling with his head down. Eyes staring forward, body eager to leap forward on the first motion from his master. A dogs mind is easy to conquer, but its the heart you have to control. He did just that, the dog was willing to fight to the death for the man behind his leash. The girl beneath the killer just stared forward at him. A certain fearlessness in her eyes, which surprised him. He knew how to fix that, after all it was his skill of choice. Her question was one he had heard before, except this time he had an answer for her. "I do. Your mother is the lead detective on a murder case. Well...a mass of murder cases". It she didn't know who he was, she would be figuring it out very quickly. "Let me introduce myself.." he says with a hushed tone, taking a step back to leave to room. He glances at the dog, motioning towards the bound Kirra. "Eyes" he says, pointing at her before leaving. It meant "watch her". The dog never even acknowledged his master, unable to take its dark stare from the girl. Time would seem slow in this moment, the growling and heavy beast eager for a sudden movement from the captive.

He returns now from his bedroom, the same place the red head met her disgraces. The same so many had, and the same she would. His face was covered now..but by no regular mask. It was far from the latex of a Halloween shop. It was a victim, it all her terrified glory. Bloodied mascara and smeared lipstick, even that couldn't hide the smile on his face. "The news papers call me The Mask Man killer...Ive never claimed this title, but it will do". Mask smiled at her, offering a little bow of grace. The woman's face had been preserved well, the use of chemicals and lotions kept her face enough for several uses. Of course, his obsession was edged by mortality. They would soon become unwearable, thus a new face was needed. His obsession was never ending, and stayed on course with it like he did with meals. It was a hunger none would fully understand. "Your name does not matter" he says plainly. A name is nothing more then a title, which could be claimed and discarded with time. Actions were material, and they meant something. It was time to put some fear into those eyes of hers. He grips her once again, forcing her to her feet. A hand around her bruised throat, applying pressure once again. Forcing her close to his masked face. She would be able to smell the previous victims perfume still, which he kept as a grim reminder from their purses. A reminder of how they smelled before all that was left was blood and rot. His grip is tight and his destination is clear. His bedroom, the first place on his list of torments. He drags her down the hallway, hurting her all along the way. His free hand twisting at her wrists, forcing the tape to dig in deeper. His hold on her throat was absolute, refusing to let go. Cutting off the air once more...holding it here before releasing her. She would be thrown once more, this time into the heavy oak desk. The same desk of torment. She was already bound, so struggling would be weakened. Any that was offered would be responded with anger, a sharp slap offered. His hand pressing harshly against the back of her head, forcing her face down against the desk. He offered no words to what he was doing, no explanation for his actions. Standing behind her, using his weight to press down on her. "Scream all you like...the neighbors wont hear you". He used his grandmothers meager fortune to rent out several of the houses nearby. The next door neighbor, however was simply out of town. Life was calm and without anyone to stop his obsessions.

Kirra found she feared the killers’ dog more then him right now. A stupid, foolish outlook. But the beast was intimidating, and eyed her hungrily. The pit also offered nothing like the erotic danger of his master. It’s teeth bared as it growled softly in its throat, she swallowed compulsively, trying not to look at it. Wasn’t meeting its eyes a sign of challenge or the like? Either way, she thought it safe if her eyes remained on the man in the room, her heart fluttering in her chest as his lips parted to address her question. Her eyes closed briefly at his first words, her nostrils flaring in the silent sigh of resignation that escaped. So this was it then.

She held no foolish hopes or expectations. If he had his way, she wouldn’t leave here alive. She also knew even when her mother did report her missing, and the usual 48 hours was bypassed, they would still have nothing to go on. It would take them hours at least to find the site, and then there would be no evidence, no hint of where she’d been taken. There never was. Just the knowledge that he had her.

It was going to kill her mother.

His hushed tones forced her lids back open, revealing the turmoil in her blue eyes. She was scared, of course she was, instinct demanded it more then anything else. But it was controlled, not the disabilitating panic inducing terror she was sure he'd seen more then once. She decided not to ruin his game by announcing she already knew who he was, her lips remaining pressed together. Still, no tears came. There was no need, not yet, she was positive he’d give her things to cry over soon enough. Kirra flinched as he spoke to the dog, but gathered the intention quickly. She was a good observer; it was how her obsession with the crime scene photos had started after all. She rested as comfortably as possible back on her heels. Not looking at the dog, but remaining forcibly tense and still under the daring gaze. A trickle of stress induced sweat dripped down her spine, making the bitch snake of fear quiver within her, it’s forked tongue flicking out like the lash of a whip, keeping her heart beat fast but strong.

It felt like an age later, when he returned. She could have sworn empires had been built and lost within the tense strings of air that bound her body to the ground, and the attention of the dog that kept her still. When her eyes finally could process what she was seeing, her pupils contracted violently in revulsion. She was shocked to feel the stirrings of a warped curiosity as well; this was after all – his obsession. This was what drove him, what he strived for. She tried to look away, but found herself hypnotised at the sight, his words, even though she’d already known them, sent a aggressive shudder through her body.

No, she supposed names didn’t matter. It wasn’t the familiarity he longed for, it was her pain, her broken face he could take as his own. She managed to drag her gaze away as he stepped closer. She flinched, but didn’t resist his grip straight away. Her feet fumbling in till they finally found the ground he forced beneath them. She squirmed as his hand slid around her throat, a squeeze provoking all the bruised flesh and forcing a gasp of pain from her lips. Her hands twisted against the tape, pointlessly.

She couldn’t avoid looking at him, forcing her to take in the close up horror of the preserved flesh. The manic, psychotic, joke of a mask. Dragging into clarity once more the pictures of the faceless bodies he’d broken and stolen – then discarded. A prophecy of her own destiny. At least, she could appreciate her death would be immortalised by a master of his trade. The cloying sweet smell of perfume mixed with that of chemicals and a barely traceable hint of deteriorating flesh. Her stomach churned, pulling back from him with little effect. The need for oxygen seemed to take its time, though she was acutely aware once more of every breath she remained without as he forced her towards the room. The bite of tape into her wrists arched her back; the strength of his hold was at once terrifying as it was intoxicating. Kirra couldn’t comprehend the reality of what she was feeling, his presence demanded attention, every touch against her body felt electrified with sensation. She was in pain, yes, but pain had never held the taboo ill ease for her as it did for most of humanity. It was… sublime.

She never felt more alive then with death pressing in from all angles.

She struggled because she knew she was supposed to. Though the sudden force throwing her into the desk knocked her still for a moment, gasping for breath against the heavy wood, squirming to right herself. She shifted, his hand descended, the burn of the slap forcing her body to still once more. The pain twisted, dragging along her skin and aching between her thighs. His silence was unnerving, degrading; the force against her head held her against the wood. Her breaths gasped in, laced with the scents of wood, blood and god knows what else. The weight of his body against her was a warning of what was to come, but also ignited all her nerve endings. She felt arousal stir again, in time with another hiss of amusement from the snake coiled within.

Enjoying yourself? The whisper purred in the darkness of her mind, and she swallowed. Confused and distressed, she forced herself to ignore it. A part of her longed for the burn of his hand again, her skin still tingling from the imprint left behind. His words gave her the perfect opening, her mouth managing to twist into a snarl of defiance. “I don’t scream on command, so you’re going to have to work harder then that.” She finally hissed, and before good sense could convince her otherwise she twisted her legs violently, trying to kick at his own as her head suddenly tipped to the side, forcing his hand to slip against the silken curls. She arched violently against him, trying to slam her head backwards, the only weapon that really held any chance.

Her actions were pointless of course, she knew he’d be ready, prepared, he’d killed so many who strived with more passion to live then her herself. Perhaps when the threat to her life was more immediate, the final decision between whether she was actually ready to die or not, would come. It seemed pointless to try and sort need from instinct at the moment. The black bracelet had been forced up in their struggle, but tape now hid the majority of her shame from view. She’d already been enamoured with pain, he just offered the chance to test those limits.

It seemed like a divine intervention, a gift of fate, throwing together the ultimate sadist with the perfect masochist. Kirra herself was only just beginning to realise the implications. She dreaded the moment he to realised she wasn’t going to be like his other victims. When the condemning wetness mixed with the pleasurable responses to the pain rather then the violent. She didn’t know what he’d do, how it would affect him. Were she normal, that unknown should have been entirely, completely, terrifying.

She wasn’t sure it wasn’t.

This scene had been played out through his head a dozen times. Acted out with his bare hands on several accounts. This personal prey had caused quite the rise in his interest. One that border lined an obsession within an obsession. To create a message to those who would try and stop him, and make a permanent mark on the minds of the city. How perfect would it be to see this young girl on the news next. The daughter of prestigious detective...murdered by the very killer the detective was trying to capture. It would cause the rest of the world to question their safety, especially when it came to pursuing this hungry killer. Could they risk the same of their own families? To risk their own flesh and blood for some psychopath? Few truly would, and that would cut the cowards out of the rack. Only the real hardened cops, or the ones who aren't scared easy would still consider him on their personal list. In the end, the same would be payed ten fold. He was a man of action, not of words. If they would pursue him after this drastic message...then he would take pleasure in tearing the flesh from their bones. A large, plastic smile spread across his lips while he does it.

He was taking quite the pleasure in this mark, the same smile beneath the stolen fleshy visage. It was just one trophy amongst his rack, and soon enough he would be wearing hers...acting out this very same scene to another captured guest. This place was his stage, his house was his theater. Since his plays would never be really appreciated by the popular fan basis, he was writing new tragedies. Each act more terrifying then the next, keeping the audience guessing at every turn. Who will die next? Where will it be? WHEN? Oh how he enjoyed these nights together with his victim. Sharing these last, pain striking moments together. Sharing her agony, offering the face of the actress before. A grim reminder that tonight was her last show. Tonight, its curtains.

She resisted against his grip, as natural as any cornered animal would. Kicking and fighting against the strength her captor offered, using the naturally higher strength males are blessed with over her. Every increase in her struggle would be met with his own force. Pushing harder towards the desk, nearly grinding her jaw into the oak desktop. Suddenly, the captive mouths off. She says something that he has yet to encounter in his fun little spree. A willingness to engage in his anger, to provoke him into unleashing his art upon her. "You fucking bitch.." he spits between his teeth, his grip on her neck settling in her hair. Getting a thick hold of her locks, pressing even harsher then before. He pins her to the desk with his own body, nearly straddling her as he presses against her. His hips digging into the fleshy rounds of her ass, pinning her in place. The situation was already starting his own arousal, her pain and body warmth causing his member to grow and stiffen. His free hand lifting her bound arms upward, creating pressure in his shoulder blades and back. Twisting her anatomy, causing more pain with every subtle yet sharp jerk upward. This will make you scream, he thought to himself. His own expression a grimace of both anger and determination. He wanted to hurt this bitch, teach her the last lesson of her life. Not a foot away lay a sharp blade, a knife he had used several times. His private favorite type, a short blade which was razor on one side, jagged on the other. Keeping his larger body over hers, he snatched the blade up with his left hand. The tip was pressed against the center of her back, trailing down as the pressure increased. The blade slices easily through the early layers, trailing lightly with a red line. He pushes harder the farther he gets to towards her ass, pulling up only as he nears her tramp stamp. The blood was starting to rise, slowly at first. Quickly towards the bottom, a clean and precise line, despite her attempts to struggle. The finale was ended across her wrists, cutting the tape free from her hands. The pain in her back would cause a lack of focus, allowing him to twist her into a new position. Straightening her arms out, extending them downward towards the legs of the desk. More tape would be applied, locking her into this new bondage. The same was done to her opposite arm...but not before he notices something..

His fingers dig into her wrists, pressing against her previous razor cuts. A curious tone taking over, a small smile spreading across his face at a further investigation. He pried for a better look, noticing the pygmy cut designs. Obviously self inflicted. "Ah...I see now. You like a little pain huh?". He slammed her wrist into the hard surface, latching it towards the heavy desk leg. Tape wrapped around her cut wrist, which was now reopened from his pressure. This is why she wasn't afraid of his advance or the repercussions of such words. She was enjoying this little encounter, to some degree. Beyond the agony and fear...she found some excitement and an unspeakable thrill. It made him curious to just how deep this level of enjoyment traveled. His now free hand moved up her skirt, fingertips roughly moving up her creamy thighs and towards the center of her panties. He pressed firmly against her slit, feeling the instant dampness through the cotton material. The bitch was wet..he couldn't believe that shit. A part of him was insulted, this wasn't some random bar hook up. He was a killer with a purpose. A rapist who took what he wanted and thrilled from their resistance. Their desire to protect their own innocence from his invasion. It never stopped him before from finishing his impulse. The dominant thought on his mind was, make this slut realize just who shes fucking with. Despite his anger to the situation, his arousal to it is obvious. His cock was swelling in his pants, hardening from the unfolding events. His fingers kept teasing after her slit, a new idea becoming evident. She was in no position to escape, like she even dreamed of it at this point. His blade tip found a new place on her back, pressing again until the familiar crimson rises. Test her, see just how far she would be willing to go before he finished this off. It was all a game to him, she being a plaything for him to exploit, use, and cast away as quickly as she was claimed.

His strength was undeniable. She should curse Mother Nature, should scream and bite and fight. But just the thought of it was exhausting. She knew she couldn’t win fighting against him. If she wanted to escape, she’d have to wait till he left her alone. If? Her mind blanches silently, her body twisting as he grounded it against the heavy oak. When. When she escaped. This wasn’t one of her fantasies anymore, she had to realise that. Had to understand that she was going to die, when and how he decided it. This wasn’t a game.

The press of his body against hers made her squirm though, his strength bearing down on her. He ground in against the curve of her ass, and his arousal at her situation became apparent. She couldn’t move, no, forced to just be aware of every touch of his body, every impression of his strength. Her body came to a still as he lifted her bound arms, forcing them up until they strained in their sockets. She hissed, unable to get away, a cry of pain escaping as he forced against them again. This was nothing though, a hand left her, she was to distracted with the idea he was going to dislocate both her shoulders to notice what this might mean.

Then, out of nowhere, desire dressed itself in a hard, sharp coat… and dragged down her defenceless spine.

She forgot her arms, her front, the aching in her bound form. She forgot her mother, sash, the pit outside and the lifeless mask he wore. The blade bit down her flesh and she trembled, the pain was intense, adulating with promise. Her mind went blank; the drag of torn flesh consumed her senses. She could feel every quiver of the blade so acutely she could picture the image perfectly in her mind. She saw the slow rise of beautiful red liquid as the blade traced its sadistic stroke downwards. She writhed in place as he pressed deeper, whimpering, even as electricity jump started all of her nerves. Her arousal stirred with a darker need – desire – the pain called to her in a mockingly sweet voice. Promising release from her fears.

It was white hot in it’s purity. It could consume her easily.

Finally, the blades loving, destructive caress came to an end. Her top and bra in taters where it had easily sliced through both flesh and material. She felt the blood well as every torn capillary and nerve screamed its position. Blood rose, trickles racing each other against her soft, pale skin. Red against white. Exceedingly beautiful yet dangerous. Her eyes had glazed, the stormy blue cloudy with the burn of sensation. The pain didn’t retreat with the loss of the blade. It hovered, cajoling her nerves into a frenzy of action. Kirra couldn’t breathe, her lungs burnt with the need of oxygen. She tried to remember when he’d cut off her air, until she realised he wasn’t restricting her breaths at all. She just couldn’t recall which muscles she required. She’d forgotten how to breathe.

Her chest shuddered, ribs expanded. Breakthrough – oxygen.

She didn’t comprehend the importance straight away, as he slashed her bindings and twisted her body. She didn’t resist, couldn’t even fathom what would be required to resist. Her back smarted and burnt as he pressed her against the wood. Her mind trying not to imagine the other sorts of bodily fluid her blood mingled with within the grains of the desk. Her right hand clenched loosely against its new bindings, feeling the resistance the arm relaxed. His hold on her other wrist was painful, but then again, everything was painful. The pain was liked a promising cloud, lashing out and surrounding her at his direction. The new cuts on her wrist reopened sluggishly beneath his rough handling, the warm slither of blood against her wrist invoked a sense of familiarity. Her gaze cleared, her head turned, looking at what he’d discovered as he himself spoke. She flushed, her skin shading itself under her shame. She tried to pull the wrist away. Pointless – of course.

Kirra gasped out as he slammed it against the hard wood, her body squirming, caught between him and her restraints. “No…” she whimpered breathlessly, registering the rough stroke of his hand against her thigh. She knew where it was going, what he would find. Her body writhed, to no avail, time seemed to slow, letting her over analyse every touch, every millimetre of advancement. Before they pressed irrefutably against the dampened material, pressing into her slightly. She was wetter then she’d ever been before, something ached inside her, a feeling no other male had been able to provoke. Her eyes slide closed, humiliated even as her body wished for more.

Confliction warred in her expression; it was a free for all between arousal, fear, humiliation and need. When he made no sound, her head twisted, her eyes slowly rising to his masked own. She tried to muster whatever pride and dignity she had left, though it seemed almost laughable, tied and bleeding as she was. His arousal was obvious, her eyes unable to help but to pause on the swell of his pants. She looked away, shaking her head mutely as though that could save her from whatever decision he made as his fingers still delved against her teasingly. Stroking her desire further, encouraging her wetness. “Please…” the ‘don’t’ was lost in a gasp as the blade pressed into her back once more.

Scarlet ribbons fluttered in her minds eye, as the blade tore through her flesh again, blood welling over and spilling eagerly onto his master design. “Please…” She whimpered, begged, though she didn’t know for what anymore. Her body writhing with the new burning cut. She couldn’t remember whether she wished for him to stop or to continue, whether to hurt her more, or thrust inside her and claim her right then. Her name wasn’t important, he was right. Her need transcended the confines of the immaterial world, threatening to take her identity with it. His darkness called to her, demanded of her. And she couldn’t remember why she shouldn’t respond.

Her top and bra had pooled beneath her, leaving her back bare but for the red rivulets and cuts. A canvas, with the artists’ first strokes outlining the shape of what was to come. The glory in her destruction.

Tears threatened, but she refused to let them fall. She found strength somewhere, her head resting against the wood of the table, trembling, as she didn’t know what to expect next. How would he use this knowledge of her? How would he fit this in to his overall plan? The potential it left him with, to raise her torment to a level that no mortal should know, was undeniable. Kirra feared, oh yes, she feared even as her depths ached with heat and need.

“Please… more…” the last word escaped on a shamed and defeated breath, her voice barely above audible as her eyes clenched shut. Of all the words she’d wanted to say, don’t, stop, no… this one slipped past her conscious mind before she could catch it. She needed… she needed with a ferocity that scared her more then the possibility of death at that moment. Her body torn, pain clouding all her senses, the promise of more always threatening the bloody horizon. She needed him in a way that breathed this moment could not be designed by chance. This couldn’t be a random moment over shadowed by coincidence. She refused to believe it.

It felt like she’d been waiting her whole life for completion, even if that completion could ultimately lead to her death.

In these last few moments, he had learned quite a bit from his captive. More then he normally would on any other cold night. He had known for days that tonight would be something special. The past weeks had been flooded with thoughts of something drastic. Something to be taken seriously for. He found that purpose in Kirra here. A chance to truly express his darkest dream to an entire city. No, an entire country. But tonight was different. She was different. The other nights had been dragged out with intense screaming. Pain that most would never be able to imagine. To phantom the horrific deeds he takes such pleasure in. To transform a person into his own design. While others had offered a complete fight. Never really giving up on the hope for rescue. For this house to turn into a fucking episode of COPS and see the criminal apprehended. Instead they were carved beyond understanding. They were used like toys, fulfilling his every sexual desire. Every perversion and darkest thought. She was different, indeed. Something inside the troubled victim before him..craved this feeling. The sudden abduction, stealing her into the blackness and forcing her into a world of unspeakable torments. The blade tip in her back, the feeling of the razor tooth splitting layers of skin. Each falling victim to its determined path. He was beginning to understand who she really was.

Her next words cause an unshakable smile. Please. She was begging for release, either by his sharp knife or his teasing fingers. Please. It was exciting, these intense moments. These pressure building seconds where he claimed what he wished. Her flesh was his canvas to paint upon, and the gallery was set. However, the manner of display was in question at the moment. Her last words however, cause a stop in his hands. What the fuck did she just say? More...she wanted more of his torments. More of his darkness to consume her and her desires. What the outcast of society...those who enjoy the taboo thrill of pain. She was such a person, one who would never fit into a picture perfect society. Little fallen angel, he thought to himself. I'll give you those wings you've always wanted...but would never get. Instead of feathers, she would have carved wounds. Bleeding pain instead of flight. An angel in name and face, if only for tonight. Tomorrow could have her seeing angels...or the bottom of the creek, depending on tonight's action.

His opinion of this woman began at nothing. She was a whore for tonight, a personal vendetta that he was going to extract upon. Use and break for personal effect. Despite his plans, the young woman seemed eager to engage his terror. His own sadistic darkness that haunts the streets. Slowly slithers through your window and fills the room with smoke. That sudden grip at your throat..no air. She desired his game, his art form. She craved his rough touch, his fingers pressing against her center. Like he was her little picture perfect boyfriend back home or something. Eager and dripping, no real resistance towards her awaiting sex. Just the thin cotton panties, which now were soaked in her warm juices. He could feel the wetness expanding, his fingers probing farther into her. He didn't know what she liked more, his blade tearing her pristine flesh, or his rough fingers violating her wet hole. The back of her shirt was cleanly cut through, her pale flesh exposed and quickly staining with crimson. As soon as the incision is finished, the razor was cleanly pulled free. Suddenly he slams the knife down into the desk, the sharp tip piercing straight into the oak topping. So close to her pretty face..nearly two inches from her nose. That same hand went towards her tattered shirt, ripping the material free. It came apart easily, either by the already sever damage or the persistent strength he used to tear it off. She was quickly becoming completely exposed, which he knew would only fuel her desire. And her humiliation from such actions. It made him just that more interested in all of it. He tore the brassier off her frame, her nipples crushing downward into the desk. Her back was so perfectly shaped, he noticed. The two lines looked correct for his work, which he was eager to continue. His hands move to her skirt, one hand on each side of her curved hips. Pulling the covering off, leaving her in just those dripping panties. Even those would be taken soon enough. Lowering her skirt to the floor, that wicked smile refusing to look away as he stripped her of her clothing and her dignity.

His strong hand reclaimed his blade, ripping it from the desk. Running the tip slowly up her cheek, letting her feel the cold of his knife. A sweetness that the blade rarely offered outside of gashes. He went back to his work, his knife piercing a new place on her back. Similar to the first two, another line downward towards her ass. Curved this time, twisting more outwards. The red rising faster with this new motion, which made his breath increase in depth. Perhaps this whole ordeal was getting him more worked up then he thought, his desire was conflicted within itself. Those eager fingertips pushed her panties aside, exposing her dripping wet lips. She really was turned on by this, having an infamous killer degrading her in every way. Something inside him was having the time of his life. Those same fingers were forced inside her, both his middle and index being pumped into her soaked entrance. The tightness offering resistance to his invading fingers, but this would hardly stop him. He was taking control of her body, in every aspect. He controlled her pain. He controlled her pleasure. She was his toy to play with. He pumped her roughly, his knife never once missing an angle. Never lifting from her tearing skin as he does the same to her other side, slicing her from top to bottom once more. Her back a deepening pink, the drawn lines becoming blurred from the rising heat.

Three lines of fire sectioned her back, and as he pulled the blade free from the newest, Kirra’s body shuddered. Her breaths came in desperate gasps, uncontrollable shivers stirring her skin. A tortured cry of fear escaped as the blade slammed down, quivering from where it stood, inches from her nose. Her eyes wide and senseless with confliction. She flinched, her fists clenching as he tore her top from her body, smothering a whimper. The fact that the material was already tattered meant nothing, as in the end the loss of the top made her feel as naked as she was.

It was odd, how much strength something as trivial as clothes gave you. How safe humans thought they were, behind the façade of money and material, with locked doors and sensor alarms. Humans were shockingly unaware of their own fragility. The majority of them, that is. Kirra found the edges of her breakability and endurance blurring under the raptor attentions of the serial killer. She barely moved a fraction as he stripped her, her head pressing against the unforgiving wood. Tears blurred her vision, not from the pain this time, nor the heavy, corrupting desire, but from the fact that she didn’t fight. She just lay bound, willing him to claim her.

That was more detrimental to her mental health that the delicious mix of pain and pleasure. Just.

She felt her nipples hardening, sensitised against the rough wood. Kirra clenched her eyes shut, willing the tears to fade away. She couldn’t bear to look back at him, couldn’t bear to see the triumph, see the enjoyment in her tarnished pleasure, her humiliation. Meanwhile, the bitch-snake coiled around her heart urged her onwards. Look back, just once. See how you’ll please him, the perfect, obedient little pain slut. This is what you aspired to; your safe little cuts had nothing on this did they, precious? Writhe, burn, let him push your limits, break them; these are your last hours after all aren’t they?

She hissed through clenched teeth, shaking her head slowly to dislodge the words from her mind. Kirra couldn’t help it though, couldn’t resist, glancing back as he slid her skirt from her hips. His smile hatched a new wave of butterflies in her stomach and she swallowed. She shied away from the rip of his blade from the desk, her muscles trembling in anticipation. The cool, threatening press against her cheek stilled her body, her breaths pausing in her lungs as she arched against her bonds. Her right wrist had gotten slippery, the cut he’d reopened still bleeding sluggishly, though she barely noticed the duct tape slowly loosing its hold against her skin.

The reality around her felt warped, dream like. The plastic covered furniture like the over used stage for a remodelled life. The air seemed coloured, textured. Each particle clearly noting its presence as it brushed against her skin. The never-ending spiral of cut flesh dragged onwards, the fact that she’d asked for this made each movement that much more distinguished. Kirra felt her mind detach, hovering somewhere amid the haze of pleasure and pain. But there was nowhere to escape to, he controlled her. He owned her.

If only for an hour or two… while he made her début.

She squirmed, willing herself still but unable to comply as his fingers sort to stroke the fire hotter. The force of his fingers registered on the slick curve of her inner muscles, constricting around the intrusion tightly. She wasn’t a virgin, no, but her lack of interest after loosing it left her body bewildered to the intensity of the sensations. And her lack of experience became evident with the tightness of her wet depths, and the soft, shocked, whimpers of pleasure and pain. She tried to rock back into his hand, grinding her hips and clit into the table as consequence, greedy for more even if she was dizzy with passion.

Too responsive, she felt – everything. She’d never been so sensitive in her life. Each brush of blade or skin, the press of his warm body to hers. The pain was ascending, mixing with the intensity of her enjoyment to leave her mind floundering for control. The steady trickle of warm blood traced her pale skin dangerously, and she almost longed to see the art he’d made of her back. Each cut, each droplet of blood. His silence was unnerving, and she found herself aware of that – of him. The rest of the world had faded away into non-existence. But she could hear every breath, excited and horrific, every rustle of clothes, every brush of him against her.

She found herself whimpering and screaming in pain, even as her body writhed against his fingers, wanting more, needing more. How could she ever have prepared for this? “Please… No… I can’t… I need…” She whimpered incoherently, the words slurring together as pleasure climbed to an intensity within her, her first ever climax built to a smouldering heat beneath his fingers. Strung out, all she knew was need. Her curls falling in a tangled halo around her face, the tips clumped and red from where they’d soaked in her own blood. Her body writhed and strained, an obedient instrument playing to his tune, only his tune.

All to suddenly, in the depths of haze, clarity formed one precise thought…

That even if she did survive, she’d be ruined for any other man. Her sense of perception shifted, the drastic need for attachment claimed her. And The Killer, all of a sudden became… Her Killer.

It was the release of these taboo cravings, these most obscene of desires. Both parties were craving a sensation only the most deranged dared dream of. He, the dedicated and talented sculptor. She, the eager and waiting subject. He was carving her like marble, the keen edged dagger in his hand similar to the hammer and chisel. He was transforming her tonight, changing her perception on all things she thought she understood. She knew the first feelings of pain. The years of abusing the razor, shy about her new found feeling. That feeling grew into an obsession that rivaled none in her life. The killer was understanding her more every moment. Every willing reaction to his touch, her response to his abuses. He knew her dedication to that cause. The fixation she found herself enthralled over. It was the same for him, in a similar frightening manner. His however, was more malicious in nature and design. Where she inflicted the pain to herself, to her own outer appearance...he forced his obsession on those around him. Specifically one class of person, targeting a smaller crowd. That same high she felt, he experienced with every action taken. Every life stolen from the streets, dragged screaming into his unforgiving house. Into the blackened basement, a place of no return for the living. All who enters here, enters Hell. It was his rush that he craved more then life itself. It was life, and it was taken with intense force.

What a pair, these two sinners here.

The restriction she offered, the tightness he continued to press through and against. His index and middle were thick when combined together, his fingers forcefully entered the depths of her dripping pussy. It still surprised him just how wet she was, how aroused his victim was to the process. To the crime he committed, the insulting and humiliation he was putting her through. A stranger, a murderer and serial rapist. Here he was, inflicting a forbidden pleasure upon her. The others were hardly as willing, or so desperate for his trials. She was tight, her inner muscles restricting every stab of his rough fingers. It was obvious of her lack in sexual interest, only a few times had she ever had intercourse with a male. He could tell by the shape of her entrance, the tightness she offered him. Wasn't she just the most prized little trophy he could find. Not in a million more years would he get this type of set up. The most personal act of his violent career, which was suppose to be his true claim to fame. The way he would express himself to everyone around...instead, she came in the form of an appealing and absolutely addictive prey. He was becoming obsessed with this particular victim. With her and her own darkest mania. He stood over her, his dominating presence always known throughout this scene. With every motion of his powerful fingers, twisting into her most hidden sensitive spots. Capturing the heart, mind and body of his victim in his experienced motions.

His knife took place once more, this time sectioning along her spine. Going in horizontal cuts, short and quick feels along her tenderize back. Causing new cuts, new rushes of the addictive pain she craved so. What HE craved so, to create her into a complete new image. To take over and transform her into a more fitting form. He was doing just that and so much more. Her arousal was coming to a climax, her clumsily collected sentences and whimpers of ecstasy a guarantee of whats to follow next. His assault on her body pauses not for a moment, intensifying as her climax does. His blade slowly drawing, deeper then before in these powerful and pinnacle moments. His breath was increasing as well, an unfamiliar lust awakening from the depths of his deepest wishes.

Her back was a mess of spilled crimson, but the cuts remained cleanly placed. Frightening in its own beauty and precision, the first steps of his creation taking form. Her desires were so forbidden in their depth, so outcast in thought and nature. She would never be like the others, both in her mentality and the state of her arousal. She craved something only he could give her. He owned her and no other man would ever claim such a title. He knew it. She knew it. It was the way of things now, or at least for the remainder of the evening. He was still curious how far he could take this woman. To what depths do these disallowed feelings dwell...and how far will he dive into them. He wanted to test her to every boundary she offered and farther. To twist her into a new creation and truly release the potential between these two. A darker desire that was only going to increase in appetite and maliciousness.

The pain blended together, each line that had been so infused, so clear. But as her back was cross-sectioned with feral accuracy she could no longer separate each burning, aching cut from its siblings. Awash with crimson, her body stretched and bound helpless for his pleasure. The pain and pleasure in her position, beneath his cajoling, corrupting hands, seared through her body. She felt her old self die, amid the chaos, felt her restrictions; her hopes, her fears and dreams crumble to dust. And from the ashes, she was reborn. She needed him, worshiped him, adored him – this perfect creation of darkness that was all to willing to exploit her trembling, drowning body.

While her condemned heart pumped her life force from the torn veins and capillaries, she had never felt so alive. So completed. Her head grew light, and no thought process could be completed but for those that affected her physical needs. She should be worried about the wave of crimson flooding the table, staining her skin, running rivulets of dramatic colour against an otherwise bland pallet. But she couldn’t comprehend how the loss of blood was affecting her mind, nor did she care. He’d taken everything from her, and invested it in pure, liquid, red gold. Her blood… it had never been so glorious.

The violent press of his combined fingers, stretching her tight walls, stroking deliciously against oversensitive nerves. She’d have thought the pain would have overwhelmed her senses, smothering any other feeling or sensation. But if anything it magnified every response of her body, every brush of his hands, every thrust, curl and pleasure. The opposing feelings blended, until the line was blurred and washed a condemning, confusing red haze. Her extremities were becoming cold, had she any awareness to spare for them. All the blood was drawn to her torn and tattered back, to spill across her trembling pale skin and pool across the wooden desk, clotting against her body.

Her forehead rested against the surface beneath her, her breaths shuddering from her lungs, her ribcage expanding in desperate bursts. The trails of blood accentuated the perfect curve of her back, now mapped with gashes. The hourglass flair of her hips rolling with every attempted press back into his waiting fingers. Humiliated by her need, but knowing he hadn’t even gotten started on her torment. This was just the introduction, where he mapped her body and mind. She was willing to bet he’d reduce her to a quivering mess, if she even survived. Kirra wasn’t that sure she hadn’t been reduced to that already.

Her pleasure built in slow, delicious waves. Tendrils of it bound her body, willing it to move, sigh, shiver with it’s own little take on puppetry. “Please!” She screamed, her body thrumming with the mix of sensations, and the undeniable need, to cum. She didn’t know what she begged him for, didn’t know what she else her body craved, beside him. Her climax smouldered within her, tracing every cut and bruise he left, worked and bullied beneath his hands until she hovered on the very edge of a chasm of pleasure awaiting her. But it remained insubstantial every time her body wished to fall from the edge and surrender to it. A choked sob of frustration escaped her lips as her body writhed on the table, tugging against her bindings in her agitation.

Her movements were weakened, each time she tried to move herself she felt the dangerous vague response of her body. She couldn’t fear though, couldn’t panic or worry, not with the need to embrace the chasm of promise within her. Her hips ground into the desk, stroking her clit into the hard, unforgiving wood. Her DNA ingraining her story within the piece, much like many girls before. Of course none would have such a story of pain and pleasure quite like her own.

When minutes passed, and she was not able to draw the finality of her climax to her, she despaired. Her tongue tracing her gasping lips, parted by each shudder and cry he dragged from her with his blade. Desperate, they opened once more, her body arching off the table and towards him. “Please… please… I need… I need… to… cum.” The foreign words felt strange on her lips as she choked them out, her inner muscles clenching around the intruding fingers sporadically as she begged. Her cheeks flushed with shame at her need, but not enough to sway the words from coming out. Kirra didn’t know what she asked for, begged for, though the process warmed her insides out along with her itch of pleasure.

She would do anything, think anything, be anything he wanted, just for him to tip the balance and send her head first into the chasm that called to her body. Her words murmured incoherently onwards, pleading and begging for her release. For him to set her free of the cage she’d been living in all her life, and claim her entirely as his own. Mind, body and soul. She was afraid; she was in pain, and desperate with pleasure. But she couldn’t fathom life beyond this elongated moment. She didn’t want to know there was a world outside these rooms, ironically, doing their damnedest to find her before it was too late.

But they’d already missed their cue; she was lost to reality now.

The night was growing more intriguing with every touch of his knife, separating flesh and sinews. With every harsh stab into her most sensitive center, transforming her reserved nature into a more concupiscence desire. She was his greatest art, his most absolute pursuit in creation. Every action was changing her into something more obscene. More obscure then your average person could fantom, this growing desire. The seed was already planted far before he encountered her, this dark and demented beauty. All he did was offer the proper light. The correct application of attention and care. However, his methods are far from the affectionate. They bordered upon the disturbing and the vile. The most evil of acts, a desperate attempt to create something out of nothing.

She was not an empty vessel when he ripped her into the night, she was simply half finished. A glass half full of insecurities and curiosity. She was only beginning to find out what direction her dark desires would take her. A cut here, a lash there. The ecstasy the pain brought her with every slip of the razor. He was filling the glass, unleashing her into her full potential. Changing her, branding her. Claiming her for his own. She was marked for life now, with every touch of his brush. His autograph however...was much more frightening. She knew just what type of trophy he claimed after the evening was finished, the face of a beautiful woman. The enchanting expression forever frozen and stolen away. Perfect for as long as he deems it be.

Her blood was beginning to pour heavily, causing a euphoric state he could only imagine. Mixed with his own abuses and attentions to her needs. Thats the frightening part of his fondness, its thrown together with confusion and a sharp knife. It was a forced feeling, created amongst her out desires to obligate his own. They were becoming a single entity, aching for something more then their physical shells. More then their own frail mentalities could comprehend. No other person would understand the feeling between these two. The killer and his victim. The victim and her killer. They were sharing this desire together. The sounds that spilled from her lips, a mixed up combination of pain and pleasure. Moans from the depth of his forceful fingers, causing her tightness to stretch against its will. The cries from his knife, slicing clean cuts and allowing a new sensation to rush over her. Between the torment of his knife and the delight of his thick fingers, he was sure his victim was in complete and utter confusion. He was addled by all this as well, unable to fully grasp the effect he was having on her. The others were simply unwilling victims, all resisting till the final moments and the last breath. She was the opposite, eager to undergo his tortures and humiliations.

His own arousal was pressing against his jeans, the hardening bulge becoming uncomfortably solid behind the denim material. Throbbing behind its cover, his erection growing intensely. His imagination and drive allowing the most perverse thoughts. To claim her with every hard inch of his manhood. Make her really scream out. She was eager for his pleasure, ardent in her need to cum. She vocalized it in murmurs and whispers, as if she was unsure of herself. He was inside her mind, as well as inside her body. His fingers pumping into her without concern for the depth or roughness he offered. Grinding down into the desk, unable to control the pleasure that had overtaken her body. Controlling her senses and blinding her to everything else. She was an accomplishment, and he was beginning to realize his original message was far less personal. Imagine the expressions when they find his latest trial. Forcing the young detectives daughter into his willing slave, eager to experience the pain he offered. Behind that mask of torn skin, the mind was going in circles with thoughts.

Arching higher to give him better access to her dripping entrance, his fingers never failing to pierce her deeply. Entering her center with a certain roughness she was obviously not aware of before him. He was a life changer, as she was finding out now. A grin spreads across his face, watching every expression she offered. Every clench of her tightening pussy, every closed eyed, deep gasping moan. He controlled her. Her words promised the effect, her desire to cum. Begging him to release her from this growing twitch. A feeling coming over him suddenly, a new desire to cause her even more pleasure. To make this first orgasm something she wouldn't forget any time soon. As if she would ever let this nights events slip from her mind, it would forever cloud and follow her. His drenched fingers pulling from her tense lips, her wetness trickling down her thighs and glimmering. He kneels down behind her, his hands now spreading her thighs apart farther. Holding her up higher, causing more pain in her bound wrists. His long wet tongue is used next, tickling her erect clit. Small circles, pressing roughly against her. He had never once licked any victim, just simply harassed and humiliated them through his sexual needs. However, she was hardly the typical prey he seeked out. He found a new desire within himself. An aching within himself to make her cum. His mouth latching onto her clit, suckling harshly while his tongue teases without pause. His fingers once more taking place into her pussy, piercing her with his callous fingers. Pumping her with perfect unison to his hungry mouth, forcing intent pressure onto her clit and clenching hole. His mouth was moving quickly, forcing a whole new feeling of pleasure upon her body. To cause the pleasure to overwhelm the pain, if only for these next hard moments under his tongue. Lashing and licking at her with an unknown hunger, a desire to make her cum. Who wanted it more now? There was no way to tell.

She was different, and he was acting differently because of it. Still, hes more then willing to indulge this thought. To find out just how deep this new developing desire will go down.