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JW's Sins & Corruptions

Jokas_Wild

Jokas_Wild

Verbal Napalm
Joined
Apr 12, 2004
Posts
1,056
Introducing: J.W.'s Sins & Corruptions

A small museum placard on a stand was the first thing seen upon entry.

"Greetings and welcome to the S&C Gallery. Feel free to wander around, admire the articles framed for display and other various amenities."

Scattered headphone stands play various rotating selections of music. He imagined life had a soundtrack, at least his did. These were his audio perceptions and influences.

A singular piece of artwork. The 7 deadly sins. Time would slowly add more to the walls.

Patrons milled about mostly silent. Reading. Gaining curious insight into a bent mind. Occasional conversations are overheard. New installations appeared at random. It was ordered chaos. It was distinctly him.

- J.W.
 
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To Experience Pain Is Human, To Relish It Is Divine

(Originally posted in Nina's Nook)
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It had always been a fascination of his, a perpetual kink ever since he was old enough to know of such things. To feel nails pressing into flesh, raking downwards and tearing the soft skin. While most would view this act as painful and unpleasant, the passion and the symbolism of it had a very different effect on him. To feel your lover's nails clawing into your back like a wild animal, that was when one felt truly alive and connected.

As he grew older and learned more about all things sexual, the feeling of nails took on another dimension. Not just to be raked in the heat of passion, but to be raked for the sheer sensation of it. To willingly present himself for such an exquisite pain, scared and knowing full well the physical repercussions but all to eager to submit to the experience. While the idea stimulated him to no end, it was ultimately brushed aside considering his own personal definitions that were hammered home by the opinion of the general masses.

Yet more time passed and he found himself in a new position, able to submit to another with trust. She was as twisted as he was, it was a bit surprising how much of their own personal kinks overlapped. She understood the feeling he craved because she in turn craved to be the one inflicting it, pushing the physical limits for her own pleasures and desires. They had discussed the idea and surprised by how receptive the other was, they set a date for the pair to play out the scene.

The rules had been already set along with a safe word for their encounter, a mutual decision had also been made not to utter a word to the other. Yelps, whimpers, yells, screams, tears and other guttural noises were allowed but the only time speech to be spoken was the safety word. The mutual silence only heightened every other sense, built more anxiety into every moment. He quietly stripped down to a simple pair of black boxer briefs before kneeling silently, head down and eyes closed. Only the skip to his breathing indicated how both nervous and excited he was, his pulse pounded in his ears in anticipation. They had agreed that his whole back, from shoulders down to the top of his ass crack, was her canvas to do with what she pleased as it suited her.

It started slowly, in a teasing manner really. Just soft tickles of finger tips, small traced lines and circles, an occasional poke. It was only when he allowed himself that first deep breath, when he truly started to calm down, that her nails dug into his skin. 4 fingers, equally spaced with sharpened nails, raked down from the base of his neck all the way to the waistband of his briefs. It was impossible to avoid the yelp of shock or the rapid breathing that followed but these things only seemed to fuel her fire. Her giggle, a sound that both excited and chilled him at this moment, cut through the still air. Razor fine tips continued to leave scratches this way and that, some intersecting one another, other times deepening the preexisting marks.

He was panting at this point, trembling slightly but not anywhere near done. This was a masterful display of pleasured pain and he felt honored to be apart of it, honored to be on the receiving end of so much attention and sensation. Within minutes thin trails of blood painted his back, the heat and tingling from his skin driving him mad. Still she continued, progressively getting harder and harder, gauging each reaction, expertly pushing him further and further.

5 minutes became 10. 10 became 20. Somehow 20 slid into 45 without him noticing. He had hazed out, a shaking mess that clearly craved more even as his body began to slip into shock. She deftly picked up the change and stopped scratching, instead easing him down with gentle strokes from the tips of her fingers. Blood now slickened most of his back and stained her fingers crimson but still she kept on stroking his raw skin, showing an exquisite amount of tenderness. Her words were just as soft as her touch, coaxing him back out of the haze and easing him into what was next. “You did very well, just keep breathing slowly. Just relax, lay flat on your stomach so your skin won’t be taunt. I’m going to make sure your ok, I promise that I don’t break my toys.”

A weak nod of acknowledgement was all he could muster, suddenly more exhausted then he had ever previously experienced in life. The edges of the sting started to set in within moments of laying and he couldn't help but let out a groan that descended into a whimper. He desperately tried to relax even while muscles continued to involuntarily spasm and wounds still oozed, the aftermath even more brutal then expected.

Her words momentarily distracted him from the pain as she eased herself to the ground, words that promised of relief and care that he desperately needed. “I’m going to get some warm water to wash your wounds with, I need to make sure you don’t develop an infection or scar to badly.” She leaned over his prone body and her lips, so soft and sweet, brushed a patch on unaffected skin on the back of his neck. “You made me proud kitten.” The combination of her lips and the words made him shudder which in turn caused a pained moan. His voice was drained and a bit shaky but had a distinctly satisfied tone to it; “Thank you…”

Her touch while cleaning his wounds was in stark contrast to earlier, feather light and with all the care in the world. The warm water soothed his aching back but occasionally she found a particularly raw spot, eliciting a yelp from him. She would then plant a soft kiss to the tender spot, other times a teasing lick, still playing with him even while she helped him recover. All the while she talked to him, nothing of importance but simple things that required his participation so he didn’t slip into shock.

Cleaning up took almost as long as the session itself, a fact not lost on him as he admired the level of compassion she had displayed for him. She had taken excellent care of him when he was clearly incapable of helping himself, his trust had been well placed in her. One final kiss, this one to the small of his back, drew a delighted shiver shortly followed by a groan of pain. “You can rest kitten.” Her cheek then rested on the spot her just kissed, listening to his heart beat and his breathing as he drifted off into an exhausted slumber…
 
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Use Me

Everything started that morning with a short text from her, just 4 words long but filled with limitless possibilities. “Use Me. No Rules.” He stared for several moments at his phone, mind racing with all the things that this invited. The first thought was to text or call her but both those options were pointless, aware that she was simply baiting him and wouldn‘t respond. She knew his schedule and manipulated that knowledge just so, a text received moments before his shift ended that evening. “Use Me. I’m waiting.” She pressed exactly the right buttons, it was the quickest way to drive him mad without expending much effort to set him off.

The house sat silent and still, voice a hollow echo as he called her name upon entering the front door. Another shout, this one louder and with a slight edge but greeted only with the same deafening silence. It wasn’t simply enough to grant him permission to use her, she wanted him at his most primal and base. The quickest way to achieve this was to annoy him, break down the simple barriers of social decorum by agitating him beyond the voices of reason. His issues with impulse control were well established and apparently she intended to exploit it in spite of any potential consequences.

His search lead him to the living room and the discovery of her, kneeling still as a statue and dressed like some profane goddess. A blushing red satin corset, cinched impossibly tight and shoving her ample bosom upwards and outwards; her cleavage on display like art in a gallery. Delicate black lace trimmed both bodice and bottom hem along with garter straps adorned with a tiny red bow. Smokey black silk stockings showcased her legs and were highlighted with impossibly tall black stiletto heels, shoes clearly meant more for fucking then walking. Her hair was pulled back into a simple pony tail, eye outlined in black coal with contrasting lips slashed a stark shade of crimson. But possibly the most striking detail about the visual was the collar around her neck, a 2” wide black leather strap adorned with a single silver ring that rested over her throat. On the ring was a note scrawled in her feminine handwriting, repeating the same words that had driven his imagination all day. Use Me.

He moved towards her, circling slowly while absorbing the gravity of the moment and what exactly was being presented to him. Her delicate chin rested upon her chest with eyes downcast to the floor, knees spread shoulder width apart in silent presentation for him. The air was thick with her scent, that familiar musky heat bringing a smile to his face and a hunger to his loins. He crossed to the couch opposite her and eased himself onto the cool leather, trying to put all of his conflicting thoughts in order long enough to figure exactly what he wanted to do to her. A crooked finger and husky voice were a good start.

"Here pet.”

Her movements were fluid and graceful, empowered by the fact that she possessed his undivided attention. She lowered herself and arched her back, pert ass high in the air as she crawled towards him with feline grace. Her eyes locked with his, challenging his gaze as she moved towards him and coming to rest mere inches from his feet; a flicker from the tip of her tongue moistened the crimson stain on delicate lips. Slender fingers capped with perfectly manicured nails the shade of sin raked across the fabric of his pants, excruciating attention paid to the bulge in the material. Teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut as he felt her exhale a warm breath onto his thigh, the heat permeating through the material and causing him to squirm. This only seemed to spur her on, upping the ante with a teasing lick involving the tip of her tongue grazing his covered erection. His jaw clenched tighter and hands squeezed into fists, a low groan of agonizing pleasure being the last sound he remembered consciously making before everything hazed out. The crumbling vestiges of his self-control meant that she was about to be treated exactly as per her request, a brutal session with no real rules or limits.

His right hand reached out, knotting into the ponytail and snapping her head backwards to force her gaze up to his. The gleam in her eyes confirmed it, this was exactly what she had been trying to bring out of him. His voice was tight with lust, not one to mince words in such a situation where he found himself so keyed up.

“You asked for this. I intend to use you just like the slut that you are.”

Her response? A smile. A defiant smile that challenged him to do his worst. A smile that proclaimed she wasn’t afraid of his big bad wolf. A smile that simultaneously infuriated and excited him, one that drew an immediate and explosive reaction. Using the leverage of his hand in her hair, he launched her across the room with every bit of strength that he possessed. A yelp of surprise was all she had time for, sliding across the floor before thumping into the wall and crumbling in a heap. Both stockings ripped at the garter clip along with a tear running down her right calf, the crashing force simply too much for the delicate silken fabric. Already she was a little less perfect and this pleased him, damaged goods had always held an erotic appeal to him. Her response was to simply stare at him with the same defiant gaze from earlier even while slumped against the wall; further mocking him by gliding the tip of her tongue over her puffy lips. She wasn't impressed.

He was upon her in the blink of an eye, grabbing her via the ring on the collar and yanking upwards. His knee slid between her legs and spread them wide, using his weight to keep her back pressed against the wall and helpless. Normally she was much shorter then him but the impossibly high heels put them about eye level, a fact that brought a cocky grin that perfectly matched her cocky tone as she spoke.

“You can do better then that Sir. I told you to fucking Use Me!”

His eyes narrowed and he ignored his first instinct to strike her insolent mouth, instead deciding an a trick equally effective but that delivered a more prolonged satisfaction. His right hand slid from the collar’s ring to her throat as his left hand slipped between forcefully parted thighs, brushing across her soaking wet sex. Her eyes widened but she made no attempt to stop him, one hand slowly closing her throat as the other began to probe the moist depths of her pussy. Her whimpers and moans were gurgled noises, the pressure on her trachea increased along with the speed of his hand pumping into her, a thumb rubbing against her engorged nub. Her whole body was trembling but he kept up his efforts, neither easing pressure or pace while he pushed her closer to unconsciousness. A loud choke and desperate gasp signaled the perfect moment, releasing the pressure on her windpipe while pressing down hard on her clit. He watched as her world exploded, the orgasm brought on by her deep inhalation of fresh oxygen, the two experiences seemed to trigger the same nerve impulses.

Not concerned about her ability to recover or enjoy the moment, once again her movement was directed by his hand leading her by the ring. She was flung over a couch arm, legs kicked apart so she was left spread wide open in graphic fashion. She was panting as she tried to catch her breath, the rapid respirations causing her splayed cunt to seemingly shake with desire. He freed himself from the confines of clothes in record time, only focused on his overwhelming need to bury himself inside her wet heat. His hand once again holding her by the ponytail, other hand holding onto her hip to brace against his violent thrusts. It felt like liquid fire being inside her, a sensation that even the world’s finest writers couldn’t give credit too.

The sounds of their passions echoed throughout the house, flesh slapping flesh, moans of pleasure becoming a mutual chorus. From his mouth spilled filth, calling her all sorts of vile things that she relished and responded to lustily. Harder, faster, louder they fucked; the world could of ended in that moment and neither would have been cognizant. It was like he was trying to take out every frustration, every disappointment, every failure and purge those demons in this session with her. He closed his eyes and let the sensations wash over him, screaming out in an orgasm that felt akin to a sort of rebirth. His release triggered her own, clamping down on his throbbing shaft with her own quivering desire as they both made sounds more animal then human. Still buried to the hilt within her, he lowered his head to rest on the small of her back all the while panting like a marathon runner. His only words were mumbled into her flesh but were clearly loud enough to be heard to determine the rest of the evening.

“I’ve only just begun to Use You…”
 
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Confession

Forgive me Father for I have managed to commit all 7 deadly sins...

Pride. Vanity. The belief I am my own God. My own fate. My own destiny.

Envy. Of course I envy those who possess undeserved advantages. For every petulent little rich shit that got to wreck their parent's Audi, there are a million without. As much as I loathe them, I want to be them.

Sloth. The willful indifference to heed the word of God or spread the Gospel of Jesus. I have sloth in spades. It also causes me to yawn.

Gluttony. Indulge. Enjoy. Feast. Excess. I chase these things with a zeal only matched by my pursuit of the next sin.

Lust. I started young. I am unrepentant in my pursuit of lustful desires. There is no telling the amount of collateral damage I'm willing cause to obtain what I want. Fruit is never as sweet as when it's forbidden.

Anger. What can I say? Your religion, the idea of a book to promote love only fuels my hate. Your rules are not my rules. I don't need your fucking moral judgements!

Greed. Why would I give away what I've worked so hard for? The failures of society are not my problem. Why does God not protect those forgotten children?

Forgive me Father, I know I will continue to sin. It's not your fault that I don't believe there is a God to send me to Hell....
 
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- He already knew how this story ended. No shocker folks, no big twist. He was gonna get his ass kicked. Badly. Shame he hadn't experienced such profound foresight prior to that moment. It was the one last click you hear as your trip a land mine. First click is hello. Second click is goodbye. You don't usually hear goodbye. -

- So what do you do in moments like that? Take stock. Evaluate how ya got there. Try and remember the exact moment where ego overtook logic. Where rational was shoved aside in favor of impulse. How you swore you knew what you were doing. Past experience shaped a future that was far from naive. Fuck that is funny. The endless self-confidence in one's ability to out hustle life. Whoops. -

- Next thought? Die young. Leave a pretty corpse. Chase the experience. Live the moment. Sounded like a vague mix of a Nike commercial and an addicts story at NA. Sans the cliche of it all, it held appeal. Why live a life that's basically watered down due to a fear of the unknown? He wasn't the Heaven or Reincarnation type. One and done folks. Buy the ticket, take the ride. Max the experience. Problem solved apparently. -

- He grinned. A shrug. Eyes made contact. A small laugh just as he spoke, nervous energy. No rewind button in reality. Oh well. -

Game on. One of us ain't gonna survive it...
 
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It's a small piano bar located in the heart of Federal Hill. Guy in a tux playing, some sultry lounge siren singing. The bar started life during the prohibition era as a speak easy. So very film noir. Most likely why it held such fascination for him. But it wasn't about the location. It was about the person whom he was waiting on. It was complicated. At minimum, messy. Interesting tho.

A casual glance at his wrist watch. Over 20 minutes late. Of course. It was hard to tell if it was due to her fondness to test his patience or her profound inability to adhere to a schedule. Bartender, another beer please. A mental deadline. Till the end of this beer. Should give her about 10 minutes or so. He moved away from the bar to a table to the left of the stage. Nice view of the door and patrons.

A miracle. It only took 2 sips for her to arrive. A subtle nod of acknowledgement as her eyes swept the room. Hmm. She went to the bar anyway. Maybe she's thirsty. Except she doesn't drink. She's fucking with him. Same reason she was late. Always pushing buttons, limits, lines. Fair enough.

A few minutes passed. She never batted an eye towards him after the initial contact. In fact, she was being chatted up by a fellow patron. Really? This stunt? Your shitting me. A laughing snort as he finished his beer, both amused and highly irritated. Sure, it had been a running joke forever. But to actually do it? Reality is always different then expectation.

It wasn't about the guy. No need to yell at him or make some sort of scene. It was like he didn't exist. All of his attention was on her, nonplussed by her grin of delight.

"Cute stunt. Let's go."

Her reply? A giggle. But she rose from the seat a moment later, patting his cheek softly as she slid by him towards the door.

"Don't be a sore loser. Told you that I'd make you flinch first"

All he could do was shake his head and snicker.

"Fuck off..."
 
Rope. Human tool for the last 6,000 years. Today's purpose? To bind one human for the pleasure of another. Of course it's more refined, superior quality instruments. An option for natural or synthetic blends. Silk or nylon for smooth sensations. Sometimes manila rope, chosen for its rough hew and industrial appearance. Then the selection of the appropriate knot, dependent on purpose and intent. Usually a simple square knot or fisherman's hook. The ultimate purpose? Bind your subject tight and pull their new found strings. Human marionette for one's personal delight.

She looked delightful. A length of red nylon bound each wrist to the cast iron rails of the bedframe. A breath of slack, just enough to twist & squirm. Eyes covered with silk fabric the same crimson as the rope. He simply stood at the foot of the bed, admiring her silently. Watching chest rise and fall, respiration rate increased with anticipation. A shiver of the cast iron headboard as she tested the binds. Neither antique metal nor binds were going to give an inch. A whimper of resignation. That's exactly what he wanted to hear.

He silently inventoried the bedside table he had setup for the encounter. Several piles of coiled nylon rope. Several floggers of varying density, from the soft of deer skin to the thick of buffalo leather. Ice bucket. Wartenberg Wheel. A section of rabbit fur. Scalpels 10, 12 & 15. Suture kit. Both hydrogen peroxide and sterile water. Fresh package of 4x4's. A package of QuikClot. He knew his proclivities ran towards the extreme. Finding a willing partner was accordingly difficult. That's why his preparation & setup was a sort of ritual in it's own right, ensuring that his tastes didn't overwhelm basic safety concerns. The idea was to torture her, certainly not kill her. Though leaving a few permanent marks? Maybe....

He couldn't be sure how much time had actually passed. Lost in admiration for his displayed equipment. But what snapped his out of his reverence was far more powerful. Not due to the volume or force of the voice. Quite the opposite. It was soft and shook deliciously. A single word.

"Please..."

Common sense would of dictated remain silent, delay what inevitably awaited her. The way she pulled against the bonds. Towards him. Not an attempt to escape but of encouragement. He grinned as he moved towards the table, delighted with his plaything. She was just like him, beautifully twisted with a penchant for sex and violence...
 
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Diary of a Sociopath: Part 1

He silently admired his tools, organized meticulously and polished to a sheen. Behind him, a soft whimper disturbed the otherwise still air. Fear. Anticipation. Knowledge that skin would never again feel sun's warm kiss. Any more holidays or happy moments. Human beings were similar to stars. Both super nova upon death. A huge outward explosion of energy, in this case terror, before fading from existence. He loved watching people "flicker out" as he so affectionately called it. The humanity leaving one's eyes, a sunset on their life. Each one unique and beautiful in it's own way. Those were his trophies. Crisp, cinematic quality memories. He had thought about taping it. Film, motion or still, would never do it justice though. Plus that was evidence to be found, the knife roll was already more then enough in terms of tangible objects.

He loved his knives. His setup was a mimic of fictional serial killer Dexter Morgan. He liked Dexter's keen sense of organization. His preparation. But that was the end of their similarities. Dexter followed a moral code. He didn't. This was about pleasure. Pure and simple. He enjoyed his work. There is no more intimate human connection then cutting them apart.

Guns were more for spree killers, the mass murder set. Wars and vendettas. Random street crime.

He considered going down the strangulation road. It had the same intimacy as cutlery but held other draw backs. It came across as angry, savage, unfocused. While he was passionate about his work, he treated it like Picasso wielding a paint brush. He wasn't about grunting and sweating like some animal.

Scalpels to bone saws. Fillet, cleaver, boning knife. An ice pick. The singular non-bladed item in his repertoire. Really fun to shove through a palm or top of foot. Especially when they screamed out something along the lines of "God" or "Jesus". Stigmata indeed.

He turned to face his victim. Julie Brixton. 20 years of age. Petite in size, firebrand personality though. Doe eyes the color of hot chocolate. So very warm and genuine. Trusting. Major in Journalism, minor in Sociology. He was a fan of the irony. Met her at a Starbucks. "Bumped into her". He looked perfectly normal. Younger then his actual age. Easy smile, quick humor. This was their third date. They had been trading flirty texts. She promised to "go all the way". How very quaint and 50's of her. He was positive though that this wasn't what she had in mind.

Once again he flashed the affable smile that had started them down this road. Instead of smiling back at him like when this first met, she simply shuddered in revulsion. He reached out to stroke her cheek. She spat at him. Fair enough. He was certainly about to do much worse to her.

"Julie, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. You had a bright future. White picket fence, nice husband, 2.5 kids and the golden retriever. Except you met me. I'm going to fucking kill you."

He grinned. He sounded so nice as he told her such horrible things. The disconnect between tone and content. He felt alive. Warm. Happy. The lengths to which one will endeavor to find pleasure and solace...
 
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Diary of a Sociopath: Part 2

Most people who ended up like him were creatures of a traumatic incident or terrible parenting. Abuse of some sort. Abandonment. Something fucked up. Him? Perfectly normal and happy childhood. Parents divorced, sure, but no ill effects really. Active involvement by both sides still. No Kramer vs Kramer. It was just something in him. A flaw. A missing component.

He started to notice it as a teenager. A section that was numb. Disconnected. Interactions were based more on being a character then genuine. Something acceptable. Likable. But unable to form real bonds. A sea of humanity. Thick. Unceasing. Little to no natural selection at work. No culling of the herd. He should fix that. Maybe he'd feel something. Anything. At least the thought made him smile. That was a start.

Spent months preparing. A small summer cottage a few blocks from his home. Unused and isolated. Easy access. His choice of victim was based on plausible deniability. Whom could disappear with minimal suspicion? There were several girls with loose reputations. None were really "friends" of his. One though was a friend of a friend. Good enough. He wasn't playing 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon.

Brittney Baylor. On the verge of expulsion. Absentee father. Alcoholic mother. Low self-esteem. Rough around the edges to hide her vulnerabilities. Fond of those whom could provide her with liquor. An escape from her pain, learned by example. That was going to be his approach.

Run into her on campus on a Friday. You seem familiar. Your friends with blah blah. He'd mentioned you were pretty cool. Casually mention a small kick back later. Sprinkle in a promise of liquid refreshment. Now she's paying attention. Tell her the time and place. Mention how he's going to pick up their mutual friend to help setup. The alcohol and a third party reassures her. She'll see him later. Indeed.

Not a fucking thing went as planned.

She's instantly suspect upon arrival. Tries to reassure her, pour a drink. She sips, eyes darting the whole while. He turns on some music. Act casual. It was the redundant mantra in his head. A joke about how no one wears a watch anymore. She's making an excuse about suddenly remembering another engagement. It's bullshit. He can't help but sneer. The mask slips off. No facade of amiable jester. Cold, hard predator. His voice remained calm despite the adrenaline flooding his system.

"Your not leaving Brittney, you're here to die. You need to die so I can try and feel something. Anything. Otherwise the cops discover this as a fucked up teen murder-suicide. Ideally....."

The thought never completed. Once the initial shock wore off, Brittney was moving quickly towards the exit. Faster than he had anticipated really. Fuck this. She wasn't getting away. Just as her arm reached out to grasp the knob, his shoulder crashed into her back and knocked her into the door itself. She crumpled to the floor and he was instantly on her. Dragging her by the hair. Fuck she could scream. So he simply yelled over her squeals.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP! YOUR RUINING MY GOD DAMN MOMENT!"

They were back in the living room. He was blindly fumbling for the knife hidden on a nearby table. It found him. The blade slide the length of his palm, a soft "shlick" sound as skin separated. He'd deal with the pain later. His grip was less then sure as his own blood greased the wooden handle. Didn't matter. She needed to be silenced. He just started stabbing. A blur of repeated motion. More screaming at first, slowing to loud moaning. Fading to a muted gurgling sound. Then the only sound was blade penetrating then retreating from human meat, a butcher with no focus.

He dropped the knife. Scooted back from Brittney. Examined his own hand. It'd be leaving a major scar but no apparent tendon or nerve damage. But that wasn't the big concern. So much evidence. So much blood. His and hers. Only one option. Burn the whole place to the ground. Hope for the best. He tore off a dry section of his shirt and stuck it in the cheap vodka bottle that had been Brittney's Apple of Eden. The remainder of his shirt he fashioned into a makeshift bandage. Then using his prized zippo, he lit the molotov and hurled it at the opposite wall. He'd never felt more alive in his life then that very moment. Brittney's death made the world look like Technocolor after a life lived in monotone grey.

The next week was a blur. Investigation into the arson and discovered body. Lots of theories banded about. Talk of some transient boyfriend. Bad romance. Her mother couldn't handle the news. Drank herself into a stupor the evening that sheriff's deputies made that heart breaking house call. Ended up falling down a flight of steps. Broken C4 & C5 vertebrae. Her death was instant. Police decided to simply hurry along the case, pin it on the mystery boyfriend. Too much trauma for a small town.

The hand injury? Played off as a mower accident. Something jammed, blade dislodged, whammy. Quietly opted to move in with his other parent at the end of that summer. Change of scenery. Parents never questioned. Wanted what was best for him. It'd break their respective hearts to know their son was a fucking psychopath. They'd blame themselves. He laid low there after, finishing his senior year of high school under the radar. He'd do it again, sure. But later, older, more refined. He got lucky the first time. Luck was a shitty way to do things in life. Luck ran out. Skill only improved with use.
 
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Diary of a Sociopath: Part 3

"Why James? Why do I have to die? You can just let me go, I promise I won't tell." Julie's voice quivered. "I'll delete the text messages. I'll act like I never met you. Please let me go...". The words ended in a gentle sob, a pathetic sound of resignation.

"I believe you Julie. Not that it matters but I do believe you. Except my name isn't James. The text messages? Cash transaction prepaid phone that's swimming in the river. I don't exist outside a story maybe your parents or best girlfriend knows. But I'll fade into obscurity as I always do. Though I promise, I'll never forget you or what sacrifices you made for me."

"Besides Jules, you don't get to die right away. You'll beg for it, that I assure you. Hell, your body will even try and go into shock before I'm ready, though that's technically not your fault. Thankfully, a few milligrams of epinephrine remedy that situation. My medical background is actually true. I just happened into the field for different reasons then I originally told you."

The truth was he had been an rapt pupil in his anatomy & physiology classes. Which site would bleed out faster, a severed femoral artery or slit throat. How severing the Achilles tendon completely disables all ability to move. The right angle to slip a blade through a rib cage to pierce the superior vena cava. All fascinating practical information for him to digest and implement into his work. Julie was his fourth playmate. Oh the strides he had made since his first messy experience with Brittney there.

One last moment of admiration before proceeding. Held stationary in the solid oak high back chair via duct tape, the only appendage that remained mobile of Julie was her pretty little head. Not that she wasn't fighting the binds around wrists and ankles, the shuddering of wood not a subtle noise. She had dressed cute for their date. Black scoop neck blouse covered by a simple but stylish cardigan. Pleated skirt, barely brushing the top of her knees. She was channeling the school girl vibe. Shame no one else would ever enjoy it.

He selected a serrated bread knife from his roll. He would start with her hands, he always started with there. He liked to remove people's identity. Literally strip away the parts that make them identifiable human beings. He also always started with the same warning to his playthings. He liked his routines. They enhanced the pleasure.

"Julie, this is going to hurt. But do me a favor and try not to scream over the music darling, it really ruins the mood."

He aimed a small remote at something behind Julie and suddenly the room filled with Beethoven's 5th Symphony. What a wonderful ebb and flow, perfectly suited for his project. He glanced at her one last time, taking a final mental snapshot before proceeding. Her eyes were squeezed tightly but not enough to prevent twin trails leaking from the corners and spilling in thin lines down her cheeks. Normal people would of felt sympathy. Remorse. Guilt.

He simply sawed off her left pinky finger at the second knuckle. The bread knife went through with minimal effort, a bit of downward force right at the joint and done. The symphony entered it's first crescendo. Ring, middle, index followed suit. She screamed. They always do. He let her howl for a few moments. Let it process. As she started slow and whimper, that's when he took her thumb.

As quickly as he started, he stopped. Took a few steps back to admire her now. Her face was no longer one of fear but instead agony. His face was the opposite, the apex of pleasured contentment. Every fiber of his being hummed like it was struck by lightening. He needed to keep feeding it. The feeling would retreat if it wasn't actively tended, sated with flesh. Back to work.

Her right hand now. Working opposite direction, thumb to little finger this time. Slower. The sound of steel crunching bone and parting flesh, mixing with her howls and Beethoven's strings. This was true classical music. The blade scarping across wood, sweeping severed fingertips to the floor like cutting board scraps.

What amazed him was that all the while, Julie defiantly remained with eyes tightly shut. She couldn't control her screams of pain but she refused to give him the pleasure of seeing the fear in her eyes. He was impressed, she was tougher then she looked. Unfortunately for her, this wasn't the first time he'd run into that level of defiance and resolve. He simply cleaned the blade with a rag before neatly placing it back into the roll, hand then dancing lightly to the right before landing on the proper pocket. Scalpel with a #12 blade, a slight hooked curve.

“I wouldn’t recommend moving Julie, I’m not trying to blind you. I just want your undivided attention.”

Reflexively her eyes snapped open at that comment, wondering the context to such a sentence. He could see it flash through her clear as day, the instant wish that she hadn’t seen the scalpel. His left hand rough gripped her chin, holding her head in place as he reassuringly hushed her. She whimpered. It made his hand tremble just a little. A deep breath. Starting at the inner edge, pressing slightly against her nostril. Pulling up along the arch and towards his right. She’s screaming like a banshee. Squirming, trying to struggle away. It makes his line work ugly but ultimately achieves the same goal. A repeat performance on the other side. Now there is nothing to hide behind. He admires the small patches of skin he excised. Pretty eyelashes. Minimal mascara. She really was a looker.

She cried. It looked fascinating with no upper lid. But it was time to turn off the lights on Julie’s life. The scalpel returned to its station and replaced with his Global Butcher’s knife, the prized possession in his roll of treasures. He gently rested the tip on her suprasternal notch, just enough pressure to indent the skin. This was the last piece of the puzzle, the moment of the actual kill. He leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead while shoving the blade into throat. Instantly blood gushed from the wound, the knife pressing forward until he touches spine. The blade retreated a fraction of an inch, no sense in Julie coughing and sever her spinal column. He silenced the music. He wanted to hear her choke. Gasp. They always do. Watching as a crimson waterfall saturates both cardigan and skirt. The initial moments of fighting her bond in attempt to pull the blade free. It’s no use.

“Goodnight Julie.”

He gently pressed a finger to her lips, shushing her in those final moments. Watching head loll forward, propped up by stainless steel handle resting on chest. The light slips below the horizon. Julie’s gone. Time to enjoy these last moments. Each time it’s shorter until the numb returns. He doesn't want to think about that. He just wants to feel human right now.
 
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Hey.. psycho! Anybody ever tell you you're a bit more than nuts?
 
Outside of your wonderful smart ass commentary, not really. I kinda got worried I'd be getting a call from the FBI after starting this set. Instead, I have yet to receive even a short pm of how I should be ashamed of myself. Though you calling me nuts, jeez, that gives me the warm and fuzzies!
 
Coming from me it should give you warm and fuzzies. But I doubt you will get many Pm's, you dont post a whole lot.
 
Yes well. My first instinct is the quality, not quantity position. Neither of us believe that. I'd like to defend it and say I solicit feedback in my first post, but your point remains the same/valid.

All jokes aside, I'd fucking love feedback. Like that sad girl who's lonely at the dance status. But as a whole, I need to be more social. I think people are just scared off by my association with you. Shit, scares me too. But I digress.
 
-snorts- Lil ol' me? I try to tell people i'm harmless, sometimes.

sad girl on one side - Straight jacket Hannibal on the other.
I'm having a strangely Carrie/Transvestite moment here.
-shakes head-

(btw - there are not just sad girls on the dance floor fucko.)
 
Diary of a Sociopath: Part 4

It had been months, a concerted effort on his end to attempt some sort of rehabilitation. A therapist, seen once every 2 weeks, allowing him to voice modified versions on his trauma and demons. A monthly psychologist appointment to make sure the medications were effective without major side effects. It worked at first, much more then he had ever anticipated or allowed himself to hope. Less anxious. Better coping abilities. A sense of serenity.

Nothing lasts forever.

Someone had trespassed upon one of his few sacred items. Everything came screaming back. All the contempt, hatred, violence. He refused to have his peace interrupted, not by vermin. This time was different. This time it was highly personal.

While impulse called for immediate disposal, that wasn't going to work here. Simply too high profile. Besides, this one was going to serve as an example; similar to the way Kings used to place enemy heads on a pike to serve as warning.

He learned everything he could about the target. Job. Habits. Education. Kinks. Everything. God bless the internet.

It took 2 months of planning, setting up a vacation from his employer and giving a plausible explanation of his departure to family and friends. Setting up a P.O. Box at his destination. Using FedEx to mail the roll to the box. FedEx doesn't inspect anything being sent. God bless private companies.

Spent the first 3 days simply shadowing his prey. Easy to do when the target knows neither their stalkers identity or even their existence. The target was a creature of habit, adhering to a fairly regular schedule. Perfect.

Day 4 was spent as a prep day. Picking up the roll from the P.O. Box, stashing it in the trunk of his rental car. Shopping at the local Home Depot for 2 mil plastic sheeting and duct tape, also grabbing a gallon size bottle of Kleen Out. KO was a sulfuric acid based drain opener, rather nasty on exposed skin and soft tissue. Sleep was elusive that evening, mind racing with options and scenarios, a kid anticipating an excellent Christmas.

Day 5 started quiet enough, a hot shower and enjoying his hotel's continental breakfast. He'd need a good protein/carbohydrate load this morning, knowing that his muscles would need every spare calorie. Before heading out, he changed into his outfit for the day. Gas company coveralls. Perfect for walking around one's house without arousing the suspicions of neighbors.

At the house by about 10 AM, his target off to work several hours previous. Prowling around the outside of the house for an unlocked window or an unlocked rear door. Backdoor was the winner. Gotta love that people who live in a "safe" area seem to be careless in terms of locking everything.

It took several hours inside the house itself to prep, opting to use the kitchen due to the tile floors. Plastic was then draped across every exposed surface, shielding cabinets and over from the impending carnage. It also doubled as a canvas, this was going to be a fucking Jackson Pollock. He unfolded the knife roll on top of the island that sat center of the room along with the Kleen Out container. A sturdy chair dragged from dining room to sit just in front of the island. His secret weapon for compliance? A singular syringe containing about 10 mg of Versed. Go to sleep juice.

Hours passed in wait. He played Angry Birds to alleviate boredom, how very pedestrian. That was until headlights peeked through closed blinds, indicating the return home of his guest. Come to Daddy. He positioned himself just behind where the front door would swing open, akin to so many horror film legends.

It was fast. The sound of key sliding into lock. The turn of handle. A few steps inside as they skimmed through the mail in their hand. A surprised sound as the front door slammed shut and some unknown person leaped at them. A short struggle before needle hit neck and plunger was depressed.

"Lights out motherfucker."

Getting him from the foyer into the kitchen proved more difficult then first anticipated. The target was slightly larger in person then at a distance combined with the fact that he was dead weight while sedated. Then again nothing good in life was every easy, not if one really wanted it.

20 minutes later, everything was finally ready and his playmate stripped of clothing. Good thing he wasn't homophobic. Secured both arms and legs with excessive duct tape. A gag of duct tape also, can't alert the neighbors of their play date. Now to wake up sleeping beauty.

SLAP!

"Wakey wakey! Time to play a game with me, namely, why is this happening to you? A common question I receive and usually I simply tell people it's because I enjoy killing. But you? Your special. You managed to really piss me off."

He paused just momentarily to crack the cap of the KO and the safety seal.

"Woooo! That's pungent! Anyway, why I'm doing this to you. You see, you really should of been more careful whom you having dealings with. Not because they are per say bad for you so much as their disapproving friends are. I try so hard to be nice. I mean, I really tried. Shit, you had what, 4 months or so? That's well above average. But see, you didn't go away. Worse, you tried to worm your way in deeper. That's a no no. So since I can't get any god damn sleep while you still draw breath, I've decided to help myself by remedying that situation."

"I'm going to kill you. But I'm also going to torture the fuck out of you. Why? Besides that I'm a sick fuck, because apparently you have a proclivity towards pain. That's pretty fucking funny. Your not going to enjoy a god damn moment of this."

He wandered over to the roll, selecting his #18 scalpel and a container of push pins, admiring both lovingly before turning around.

"This is going to be ugly. Did I mention that? Who cares."

Blade whisked along palm of hand, drawing first laterally then vertically. The incision was deep, quartering the palm into four equi-sections. His fingers dug in, grabbing a corner flap of skin and wrenching backwards. The flap peeled with minimal resistance before he sunk a push pin through the meat and into the chair, holding it like a lab specimen. The process repeated 3 more time before being mirrored on the opposite hand.

"Now for the fun part. Yeah, I know, that wasn't actually the fun part! Your so fucked!"

He looked gleeful, grabbing the Kleen Out bottle and slowly pouring out the liquid onto opened flesh. The flesh instantly sizzled, reinforcing why the label insisted on personal protective equipment. The screams were lost into the duct tape but it brought him no less joy.

"Yeah, pain kinda sucks anymore huh? I bet this is not getting your usual jollies today."

The placed the scalpel back in the roll, swapping it for his trusty bread knife.

"For the record, I've always wanted to try this. Thanks for the chance."

Blade met the flesh near apex of shoulder, sliding onto an inch of so inwards before turning down. A slow sawing motion saw the blade slide down towards elbow, cutting flesh off like it were a roast being served. Again, mirrored on opposite side. Symmetry.

"Mmmm, that was fun." A laugh, cold, hollow, dead. "In fact, I feel like painting!"

Bread knife replaced, his smaller scalpel taking it's place. He stepped back, holding up his thumb like painter's do for some unknown reason.

The slashes that followed were quick, erratic, designed to spurt blood onto the plastic backdrop. The coroner was going to have a fun time counting all these marks, it was going to be somewhere in the hundreds.

He paused just long enough to step back and admire one his handy work. It looked spectacular. A glance at his watch indicated that he was pushing the hour mark. Time to wrap it up.

"Hrm, I have to be going soon. Let's finish, shall we?"

The final touches saw the scalpel run from corners of lip to mid-cheek.

"I want to make sure they know you were smiling my friend. Since your a masochist and all."

The scalpel was slid into the pouch and he grabbed the butcher knife, his "finisher" from the tool kit.

A violent yank of hair snapped head back, exposing throat for the grand finale. It wasn't a simple slitting of the throat, that was simply to banal for his tastes. Neck opened from jaw line to jaw line. Then a slice downward, through the windpipe to supra sternal notch. A crimson waterfall. Beautiful.

His prey removed from this world, he quietly repacked his roll and changed into his spare clothes, folding bloody coveralls into a grocery bag. Exiting out the back door and up the block towards his rental car. An anonymous 911 call from a payphone 20 miles away from the scene. An address followed by a click. That evening spent in his hotel, restless, anxious because this wasn't his usual style.

Nothing happened though. He woke the next morning, showered and returned his rental car to the airport. The flight was uneventful. There were no FBI awaiting him upon landing back home. Perfect. Everything in life suddenly felt ever so perfect.

His therapist would be proud of him. He was dealing with his stress points in a proactive manner instead of reacting to the situation. Too bad he couldn't tell her how....
 
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Diary Of A Sociopath: Part 5

This time it all started with the cold drench from a bucket of water. His companion for the evening awoke with a start, unsure of surroundings or how they ended up here. 10mg of Versed helped accomplish that feat earlier in the evening.

Slowly his prey acclimated, shifting against the bindings that held arm and leg in place against his favorite chair, the antique oak that looked similar to a throne. He felt the harsh glare before hearing the snarl, different then the usual soft whimpering cadence of the female sex.

“I’m going to kill you, you fucking psychopath. I know who the fuck you are!”

He smiled. It was true, this was the first time one of his playmates actually knew whom he was. Name, address, living situation, everything. This time was more business then pleasure. Well, no, there was going to be pleasure in this. But mostly business, at least that was the conviction going in.

“Even if I don’t kill you, she will. You don’t get away scot free. Do you get that?”

Pfffft. He dismissed the words with a wave of his hand and launched into a speech that he had rehearsed a million time in his head. This was his Broadway, his spotlight moment while giving the performance of his life.

“Matthew, Matt, can I call you Matt? Of course I can, your tied to a chair. Also, did you not see the papers several months ago? No? Irrelevant, though it was a warning. Matt, how do I put this? You trespassed on my ground. I let that slide. You became more and more of a presence. I tolerated you. You got bold, decided to go for the brass ring. Hell, even touched it, grasped but couldn’t quite pull free. That’s unacceptable.”

He stopped talking just long enough to wander to a darkened corner, the sound of swivel casters announcing his return trip. A simple wheeled cart with a large marine grade battery as the cargo along with some heavy duty jumper cables.

‘You see Matt, I’m well aware she’s going to kick my ass. Might even kill me, who knows, she is the volatile type…”

He hummed softly while clamping onto the positive and negative terminals, tapping the opposite side together for dramatic effect. It gave a satisfying pop and spark of showers, inciting another round of venom from his company.

“I bet you think this is love you sick fuck.” Matt literally spat on the ground with those words. “That this is some noble sacrifice, your protecting her from an evil that she doesn’t see. Your putting her on a pedestal by herself, your creating a fucking wedge. She can be only yours and you can’t even truly have her. The funny part is, I’m not your biggest problem, we both know I’m not her primary. Why the fuck aren’t you doing Pee Wee’s Sick Fuck Playhouse with him?!”

The speech was out the window, replaced with a loud buzz inside his head that wasn’t the electrical current. Teeth clenched, fists tightened. The first thought was to kill him right then and there. Fuck torturing him. Fuck talking to him. Just a knife shoved down that god damn insolent mouth, choking on cold steel to the hilt.

“You know what Matt? I‘m aware of your position in the food chain. You just didn‘t seem to understand my status of on top, that‘s our problem here.”

A flick disconnected the negative terminal before turning around and clipping the other end clamps to Matt’s thumbs. He took his time to grind the teeth into the skin while obsecinties were spewed inches from his face.

“Such language Matt. You kiss your family with that mouth?”

“Yeah, same mouth I used to eat her pussy with! How’s that make you feel sick boy? You a big man still, knowing that someone else pleasures her?!”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t move for several moments. The loud buzz had turning into a screaming swarm of hornets, demanding blood and satisfaction.

“Oh, did that bother you Mr. Sociopath? Huh, you think I don’t know? Your all hype, smoke and mirrors, you’re a fucking carnival act. Did she find you at some sideshow, take pity on the poor and helpless? Is that why your kitten? You a pussy? I love pussy. Ask her.”

Completing the circuit at the battery terminal stopped his taunting in it’s tracks. In fact, Matt had a rather nice falsetto when he screamed, whom would of guessed? He gave it a mental count of 5 and stopped, unhooking the clamp.

“I’m sorry Matt, anymore commentary? I love feedback, really, I do. Come on, you were so insightful moments ago! No? Nothing? Cat got your tongue? Ironic with my nickname and all.”

Another searing round of electroshock therapy, this time a 10 count.

“Come on Matt! We were just having fun! Tell me what my future holds! You can be Zoltar and I’ll be Fred Savage, it’ll be great! Matt? Hello?”

Matt leveled his gaze and with a resolve that was surprising, uttered what would ultimately be his final words.

“You don’t win here, this doesn’t solve anything. Is her primary next? What about another me? Am I worth losing her? Are any of us worth losing her?”

There wasn’t an answer, not verbally anyway. He simply reconnected the terminal and silently walked out of the basement, away from the screams and developing burnt smell. The thought stayed with him though, what was the cost of satisfying his hunger? What price would he pay for these actions?
 
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