I’ve come to learn in my short seventeen years that Reality just isn’t my cup of tea. But for every social event, friend,personal experience I lacked or just simply didn’t attend I had a book to make up for it. I had discovered the power of fantasy as a small child before being adopted. The obsession had taken hold even then. It developed more into a need to escape.
My walls are lined with bookshelves. A stranger would think this room was our library upon first glance no doubt. This in fact was my room though. My place of solace and solitude. Hundreds of books with different worlds,life and experiences to delve into. Most of it I had read four times over. I was hankering for a new read. A new experience. I glance over at my desk at the far side of my room. There was only one work in here I had not mentally devoured.
Sighing I grab the worn out composition journal and arrange myself comfortably in my chase lounge with my favorite weighted green fuzzy blanket. I studied the cheap black and white speckled outside. In places it seemed almost scraped against something, taking the glossy like top paper off, revealing the soft inside of the compound cardboard.
“My Collection Vol. 1” was written with an elegant hand. I sigh again. I’ve had this for a month now. My father had said it was the only piece of literature in the auction roster. Whoever had authored the journal had clearly loved it in some way the binding was lacking in many areas. Almost like it had been obsessively gone through even after there was no space left to write. Opening up I give in. If I am to read a catalog of someone’s possessions so be it. When I open the journal there is an envelope “read first” written on it in the same elegant hand.
Dear reader, I fear what you're about to read will have you bringing my precious account to the authorities. However I advise firmly against such action. Rest assured you are being watched.
Paranoia fills me to my core. What on earth could possibly be in this journal? I would feel the need to bring it to the police’s attention? Who the hell wrote this? Perhaps it’s a catalog of ivory trade or a list of blackmarket possessions. Those things are not all that uncommon to this wealthy community. I remember when I first came here I had this diluted idea that the wealthy among the Americans are morally superior to those who funded the orphanage in Romania.
Needless to say I had been wrong no doubt. I hadn’t encountered such people like the men that funded the orphanage here. But I was well aware they existed here. They simply just wore a mask at all times here. I had watched the news and read enough about American murders to know sickness of the mind was not limited to those in poverty. No sickness of the mind didn’t care for what you did and did not have. Although it no doubt flourished more so when it affected a wealthy man.
Shaking off my fear and hanging on to the intrigue and hope that this journal contained more than just a detailed list of possessions I decided to continue on. It’s not like I had anything better to do.
My impulses no doubt began at a young age. They only darkened with age and experience. Sexual experimentation is no doubt different for a then boy with blossoming sexual sadism. Even in my first sexual encounter I had naturally acted out my impulse. My need to inflict pain and fear on the girl beneath me was simply overwhelming. It had been enough for an entire year. The girl had been so well behaved she hadn’t breathed a word to anyone. She hadn’t been outraged either.
No she stood beside me and allowed me to do as I please. She had been too afraid of me and of losing her scholarship to our esteemed high school. So she remained a good little pet to me my entire freshman year. She hadn’t returned for our sophomore year. It had initially infuriated me but I soon came to realize that I needed a girl to give me the image of normality. My perversions had escalated greatly in the summer.
At first it had been just bdsm styled porn but soon the lack of it being real consumed me. I had eventually stumbled upon snuff films. It did nothing to quench my desire. If anything it sent me spiraling. By the end of sophomore year I was regularly paying prostitutes. As long as I left no ugly scarring preventing them from working and I paid above and beyond they had been agreeing. At Least initially. By the time I was satisfied there wouldn’t be a number big enough for me to use them a second time.
Meanwhile I kept up the facade of the generic athletic high school boy dating the gorgeous but very sheltered prudish popular girl. The facade at first was annoying and took all my self control to maintain. By senior year I was able to turn it off and on naturally. By all appearances I was a normal guy. I had refused to sleep with my girlfriend for two years. I could see the jealousy she had when her friends went on about their experiences.
I played it off to my pose of jocks like it was all her. She had in fact come from a very religious family. I had eventually forced myself to take her virginity in a normal fashion. I hadn't expected to take great pleasure in it. But because I couldn’t harm her I soon dumped her. She attempted to tarnish my reputation but only managed to tarnish her own. Thank god for our sexist world. No one, not even her best of friends cared what she had to say.
In college I had blended in perfectly. I even managed to join a frat with similar minded young men. They drugged and raped almost openly. The worst kept secret of the college. A few girls had come forward to the school board but once again our male favoring society prevailed. None of the whistleblowers had been ones I did. No, I was smart. Sure I like the rest of the boys came from money and status. I could always throw money at someone and make my problems disappear.
I had always been careful. I knew my perversions would only escalate physically. I couldn’t have any type of track record. Nothing that could appear as a pattern of behavior. I discovered S&M clubs and spent most of not all my free time there. The patrons had all been wealthy influential people. No one saw anything because no one wanted to be seen. By the time I had finished college I had connections. Ones that knew where to obtain people no one would miss. Ones that would even do cleanup and disposal for the right price.
That brings me to my present day. Today I’m being initiated into an exclusive club. Making my debut if you will. I will be gifted with a throw away to do with as I please in front of the other patrons. I have to make a show of it. And the throw away has to die at the end. If you haven’t caught on a throw away is, a female or make that was unable to sell at auction. They then sell for cheaper as throwaways for club entertainment. After tonight I will be a full fledged member and will be given access to such auctions to buy for my personal use.
I’m elated, I haven’t felt this high since my very first physical experience and I haven’t even done it yet.
I find myself fear stricken with anticipation on what the next two pages contain. This couldn’t possibly be real. No, no such person would put such secrets in a journal. Much less to then sell the damn thing. Unless they would…. no this can not be anything but some jerk playing a joke. Perhaps someone’s amature book of fiction. Yes that must be it. This has to be someone’s attempt at a dark realistic fiction. Shakily I continue on.
Last night was a splendid success. My throwaway as I requested had been a female. She was presented to me on stage complete naked and chained by her wrists. The chain had been bound tight not allowing her any mobility. I remember my disappointment as I viewed a ball gag in her mouth muffling any noise. Removing it had been my first action.
I was simply magnificent looking, I had done my entire performance in just black jeans and a black bull mask. They had laid out every and any weapon or device I might ever desire to use on her. I had taken my time selecting which I wanted to use first. Most of the tables I had no desire for. The small strawberry blonde had been repeatedly thanking me for removing the ball gag and bagging me to get her out of the cuffs. Her misguided assumptions brought my attention from the table of whips back to her. Perhaps if I removed the blindfold I had thought. Yes I wanted her fear to build up. It would make everything far more exciting. To see the fear in her eyes.
I yanked the fabric and stood before her letting her take me and no doubt the audience in. I looked back at the audience as many of them laughed at the squealing girl. Giving her sight back had certainly revealed to her that I was no savior. Behind her at the walls of the stage had been many different s&m torture furniture. Among them a wooden Spanish donkey had caught my eye. I had dragged it out puting it beneath her. Her legs on either side and cunt pressed on the cornered top. She was wailing and begging me for mercy.
She had such a homely face it wasn’t a wonder how she hadn’t sold. At Least her body was okay. Her cry had grown agitating though. I had punched her in the mouth repeatedly while holding her head in place by her hair. I had done so until all the things front teeth had broken out. Some had fallen out while others had half broken leaving her with sharp little jagged teeth. Her nose had broken as well quite terribly too. The entire thing was twisted to the side and bled like a fountain.
I had finally decided on a whip. A leather one with sharp rocks tide into the tail. It had easily become a favorite of mine last night. It slit her skin down to muscle and in some places down to the bone. The audience was silent, making her screams all that could be heard until she fell into unconsciousness. I had uncuffed and let her fall into the donkey first and then onto the stage. The impact had brought her around; she groaned and pathetically tried to crawl away. I had dropped my pants and stroked myself to her pathetic little noises. Only long enough to give everyone a show before I pushed her legs apart. I had never felt so whole as I did inside the tragic girl. Her screaming was delectable. She had been seventeen and still had her virginity. I slit her throat as I climaxed. My muscled chest was covered in its blood. I was so high from my orgasm and kill I hadn’t even heard as everyone came to the stage whispering praises about my technique. A woman dressed in black with a cat mask had even boldly groped my cock while telling me to keep the whip that she had never seen someone master it so beautifully.
Tossing the journal aside I raced to the bathroom off the side of my room. I got on my knees in front of the porcelain toilet. Nothing had come up but the nauseous feeling was strong. The hair on my skin standing at full attention. I couldn’t shake the feeling that what I read was as real as I am. I had read the last moments of a girl my own age. From the happy point of view of her murderers. Once I had regained my composure I raced to the discarded journal and neatly hid it under my bed.
This was real I was sure of it and if it was real so was the threat of being watched no doubt. He or they most likely had been observing my father completely unaware that he purchased the journal for myself. Was my father in danger? What was the end game? A man like this surely had one. I didn’t know what to do. Although the man had written this anonymously he had shared useful information. He was wealthy and influential. He was most likely at the auction observing my father purchase the journal. He was most likely a part of the gated community we lived in. Had I met him? Is he a friend of my father’s?