Date: Fri, 2 Sep 2016 11:02:27 +0000 (UTC)
From: z119z 2000 <z119z2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Briefcase

The Briefcase

z119z

© by the author 2016

The "whip" was a length of copper wire sheathed in black plastic, slightly
more than an eighth of an inch in diameter and about four feet long. He had
taped the ends with black electrical tape and then tied a knot in one end
to make it easier to swing. Wound into a coil, it had fit neatly into one
of the pockets of his briefcase. He had cut it off an old pair of
noise-cancelling earphones when the cloth covering over the earpieces had
begun to fray. He liked the irony of that. To judge from the reactions of
the man tied to the bed, it had lost its noise-cancelling properties. The
man had begun screaming with the first stroke.

He liked the marks the cord left and the patterns he could create with
it. Tonight, he had used the cord to produce a visual record of red welts
spaced a half-inch apart from the man's shoulders down his back, across his
buttocks and the backs of his thighs, ending just above the knees. The man
had such white flesh—it looked as if he hadn't exposed his skin to the
sun for years. Perhaps he was afraid of skin cancer. He silently thanked
the man for cooperating in his efforts to produce a work of art on a living
canvas. The red stripes against the stark white flesh were magnificent. He
snapped several pictures with his phone.

He had found the bar online months earlier when he was scouting possible
pick-up locations. According to the bar's website, it was a "gay-friendly"
drinking spot catering to the needs of professionals in the financial
district. It was quiet and sedate. It boasted that it had no television
sets on the premises. "Perfect for meetings or for unwinding at the end of
a busy day." The prices it charged for its "extensive selection of single
malts, craft beers, and vintage wines by the glass" were high enough to
discourage casual drinkers. To judge from the pictures, the bar catered to
gay men who preferred an upscale men's club atmosphere over the usual meat
market. The neatly groomed barmen and waiters wore dark red vests over
white shirts and sported red bowties. The chairs around the small tables
were covered in dark maroon leather. The floor was carpeted. He was willing
to bet that no one spoke above a murmur and that the loudest noise was the
clink of an ice cube against a heavy glass.

He had taken care to look the part of someone who belonged in such a
place. His chestnut-brown hair was neatly trimmed. He had shaved carefully
that morning. He didn't have a beard or a mustache, and he didn't sport a
fashionable three-days' growth of stubble. He had dressed to blend in. The
well-cut charcoal-gray suit, the white shirt, the polished shoes, the
discreet tie—and the black briefcase. Just another businessman stopping
off for a drink before heading home after a long day at the office.

The man had glanced up as he approached the bar, and he had aimed a vague
smile in the man's direction as he sat down. A vacant stool separated
them—close enough to start a conversation, but not so close as to
threaten the other man's space. The etiquette of the casual bar pick-up was
being observed. When the bartender approached, he asked for a Macpherson's,
neat, with water back. He kept his voice low and well modulated. His tone
and his manner conveyed money, education, taste.

In the mirror behind the bar, he saw the man turn his head slightly and eye
him surreptitiously. The man continued to watch him as he rolled his
shoulders slightly as if relieving the stress and kinks of sitting at a
desk all day. It didn't hurt that he had wide shoulders that stretched the
fabric of his suit. The target liked what he was seeing, but he was trying
to be discreet. He didn't want to attract attention—yet—and he wanted
deniability if his gaze proved unwelcome.

When the bartender put the heavy tumbler of malt whisky in front of him, he
stretched out his right hand to touch the glass. He had good-looking
hands—masculine, strong, well-shaped, expensively manicured. He let his
fingers linger on the glass for a few seconds before he picked it up and
sipped appreciatively. He briefly closed his eyes while he ran the amber
liquid across the surface of his tongue. When he sat the glass down, he
smiled to himself and allowed his eyes to glide across the mirrored images
behind the bar until they met those of the man seated next to him. He
nodded at the man's reflection. "It's been one of those days," he said. He
smiled tentatively, in a bid for empathy. He knew, he was implying, that
the man would understand and appreciate another hard-working businessman's
need to relax at the end of the day.

The man smiled back. He introduced himself as Jeff. "Michael," he had said
in return as they shook hands. He hadn't used that name for three
years—not since that time in Boston. If Jeff went to the police (not
that his partners ever did), they wouldn't connect him with that
Michael. In any case, that partner—he couldn't remember the man's
name—hadn't gone to the police. There wouldn't be a record. On the other
hand, there were plenty of Michaels in the police data base with a record
of "bodily assault with intent to do harm." Enough names to keep the cops
busy chasing the wrong person, if it came to that. But he didn't think it
would.

He hadn't rushed things—they had finished their drinks slowly and talked
about the ongoing political campaigns, the weather, the market. It hadn't
taken long to make Jeff his, although Jeff may not have realized that
himself. He had telegraphed to Jeff that he might be interested in
something more than a desultory conversation of no particular interest to
either of them. He hadn't done anything overt—nothing more than a
guarded visual inventorying of Jeff's body followed by a boyish grin and a
rueful shrug of his shoulders when he let Jeff catch him doing it, and
shortly later a manly squeeze of Jeff's upper arm to emphasize a point that
he was making and a series of candid, intent looks that locked Jeff's eyes
on his memorable green eyes and held them fast in a grip of sincerity. Jeff
would remember those eyes.

He let Jeff make the first explicit moves, but he was careful not to give
in too readily to Jeff's discreetly worded overtures. He even managed to
look grateful when Jeff suggested that they go back to his place.

Jeff's "place" turned out to be a narrow, three-story brownstone divided
into two units. He owned the top two floors; the other tenant had the
basement and the ground floor. Jeff had poured glasses of red wine. "All I
have," Jeff had explained as he handed "Michael" his glass. "Give me a
minute, will you? I want to get out of these clothes. Make yourself
comfortable." Jeff had waved a vague hand at the room before he disappeared
up the steep narrow flight of stairs to the upper story. There were sounds
of drawers being pulled out and what he guessed to be closet doors being
slid open and shut.

He took off his suit coat and draped it over the back of an easy chair. He
loosened his tie enough so that he could slip it over his head without
untying it and then undid the top button of his shirt. He considered taking
his shoes off, but decided against it. Best not to make himself too
comfortable. He transferred the auto-injector pen from the inside pocket of
his suit jacket to the right-hand pocket of his trousers. It would take him
only a second to push the cap off when he needed it.

From upstairs came the muffled sounds of a toilet flushing and water
running. A few seconds later, Jeff returned, wearing an old pair of jeans
and a white T-shirt. He was barefooted. Jeff obviously spent time at the
gym. He was trim, nicely muscled but not overbuilt. That was all to the
good. Big guys could be a problem to maneuver. Someone Jeff's size was much
easier to handle.

Jeff sat down beside him on the sofa, bending the near leg at the knee and
drawing it up until it rested on the sofa a fraction of an inch away from
his thigh. Jeff touched the rim of his glass against the one he was holding
and said "Cheers."

He raised the glass to his lips and pretended to sip as Jeff swallowed a
mouthful. He set the glass down on the coffee table and gestured toward a
life-size photograph of a nude male torso hanging on the wall opposite
them. The figure's head was hidden in deep shadows. "Is that you?"

"I wish. He is beautiful, isn't he? I have a different picture of the same
model upstairs, in my bedroom, if you want to see it." The invitation hung
in the air.

He smiled at Jeff. "Later. There's no need to rush, is there? We'll get
there eventually." He touched Jeff's hand, just a light stroke for
now. Jeff read it as a promise. He looked slowly around the apartment.  "I
like your place. Would you mind if I took a closer look?"

They carried their glasses of wine with them as Jeff showed him around,
pointing out the improvements he had made in the place. He was careful not
to touch anything. So far the only item with his fingerprints was the wine
glass, and he would wash that before he left. Jeff had encouraged him to
drink up when he refilled his glass, but he had excused himself. "I've had
enough for now. I'll have a glass later—afterwards."

Jeff liked the sound of "afterwards." He also liked the sound of "I believe
you promised to show me your bedroom. I am looking forward to seeing a nude
male."

Jeff poured himself a third glass of wine before leading him to the upper
floor and the bedroom. A king-size bed covered by a puffy white duvet faced
the mirrored sliding doors of a closet. He noted with approval that the
bed's head- and footboards consisted of vertical metal rods capped by
sturdy lengths of metal piping. That would prove useful later. The bed took
up most of the room, but there was space to walk on both sides. "Nice," he
had said. "Very cosy. And private."

Jeff giggled. He was beginning to show the effects of all the alcohol he
had drunk. He was practically simpering. "It's one reason I bought this
place. I wanted privacy—at least in the bedroom. Nothing that goes on up
here can be heard in the downstairs unit."

He smiled inwardly at the thought of how thoroughly that assertion would be
tested over the next several hours. "Hmmm," he said. "Nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing!" Jeff replied. This time he smirked and ran his tongue
suggestively across his lips.

Two could play that game. "Jeffrey, what have you been doing up here?" He
kept his voice playful and flirtatious. "How noisy do you get? What do I
have to look forward to? Moaning? Screaming?" He put his arms around Jeff's
chest, drawing him into a tight embrace. He ran his hands across Jeff's
back and then kissed him lightly on the lips.

"That depends on what you have planned for me."

"Oh, maybe a little of both—if you're up for it."

"Just a little?"

"Shall we find out?" He drew back a bit. "Let's get you out of these
first." He lifted the bottom of Jeff's T and began lifting it slowly
upward. Jeff instinctively moved to help him take it off.

"No," he said. "Let me undress you. I like to do that. Slowly—one piece
of clothing at a time. Let me savor each bit that's revealed. It's like
unwrapping a present." He used that line often. It gave him a reason to be
in charge and helped accustom his partners to his controlling the
situation. He made sure that the docile behavior he wanted was
rewarded. His targets were only too happy to go along as he explored their
bodies. He had skilled hands, hands that could excite and arouse. He was
equally adept at using his mouth.

When he raised the T high enough to expose Jeff's nipples, he leaned
forward and began kissing them. Jeff gasped with pleasure as his wet tongue
slid across first one and then the other. When Jeff tried to embrace him,
he gently lifted Jeff's arms, bending them at the elbow, and bringing
Jeff's hands together behind his own neck. Jeff eagerly accepted the role
of passive. adored object. He laced his fingers together, pushing his chest
forward and exposing it to the attentions of "Michael's" fingers and mouth.

Jeff was letting him take charge. He was cooperating. Most men did. Most
men were lazy. They liked being the recipients of his attentions. They
liked to be made love to. Even the ones who thought of themselves as tops
wanted to be the focus of their partner's desire. They thought of it as
"worship." Whatever. It didn't matter what label they attached to it as
long as it gave him an opening.

He had judged Jeff correctly. The conversation in the bar had revealed a
man anxious to make himself agreeable. Jeff would take let him take the
lead. "Let me see your back," he said. He maneuvered Jeff's body around so
that it faced away from the mirror. He pulled the front of the T shirt up
and over Jeff's head, momentarily letting it cover Jeff's face as he
wrapped his left arm around Jeff's chest and fingered Jeff's right
nipple. He nuzzled Jeff's neck as he undid the button on Jeff's jeans and
unzipped them with his right hand. He pushed the jeans down until they fell
to Jeff's ankles. Jeff wasn't wearing underwear. That made the next step
easier.

He slid his right hand into his pocket and pulled out the auto-injector. It
was intended for veterinary use with large animals. The sedative was fast
acting and the needle very sharp. As he pushed it against Jeff's buttock,
he pinched Jeff's nipple. The shock masked the swift plunge of the needle
into his flesh. Jeff was oblivious to the sedative coursing through his
body.

"Hey, not so hard. That hurt."

"Oh, sorry. Got carried away." He began kissing Jeff vigorously to make up
for his lapse. He pulled Jeff backward and lowered his body onto the
bed. Jeff fumbled at the duvet trying to shove it aside. His movements were
already becoming sluggish and uncoordinated. He lifted Jeff's legs and
rolled him over onto his stomach. The drug rarely took more than half a
minute to take full effect. Jeff had drunk enough that it worked even
faster. He was out within ten seconds.

He went downstairs and retrieved his briefcase. He pulled out a pair of
latex gloves and put them on before returning upstairs. Another useful
aspect of the sedative was that it wore off quickly. He had around twenty
minutes to get Jeff ready. That would be more than enough time. He moved
Jeff's now-inert body first to one side of the bed and then the other as he
pulled the duvet and the top sheet from under him. The fitted bottom sheet
made a much nicer canvas. It stretched tautly across the mattress. He would
have preferred that it be white rather than the light blue it was, but he
didn't have time to locate Jeff's linen closet on the off chance that he
had a set of white sheets he could substitute. He could live with blue. He
removed the pillows from the bed so that he had a flat work surface. He
stuffed the duvet and pillows into the closet and closed the door. He liked
order. Clutter would detract from the performance piece he was about to
create.

He stretched Jeff's arms and legs out to their full extent. He removed the
four pieces of rope from his briefcase. It took him only a few seconds to
wind each rope around an ankle or wrist and tie it tightly to a bedpost. He
liked to begin with his partners spread-eagled. It left them so open. He
also liked to use rope rather than leather cuffs. Ropes left marks. For a
few days, Jeff's ankles and wrists would bear witness to the cords that now
secured them.

Jeff would see the marks later, but there wasn't anything in the remainder
of their time together that Jeff needed to witness. He wrapped several
layers of duct tape over Jeff's eyes and around his head, molding the tape
around the nose and under the eyes to form a tight seal. He made sure that
the tape passed over Jeff's ears. It wouldn't prevent Jeff from hearing but
it would muffle sounds and increase Jeff's sense of isolation and
helplessness.

Nor was it necessary for Jeff to speak. He pried Jeff's jaws apart and
stuffed the red ball gag behind his front teeth. He liked the image. It
reminded him of a roast pig with an apple in its mouth. He buckled the gag
so tightly in the back that the straps dug into the flesh of Jeff's
cheeks. That would add to Jeff's discomfort when he woke up.  Plus, the gag
would keep Jeff's screams from being heard. He had no desire to discover
whether Jeff's belief in the privacy of his bedroom was justified. Finally,
he turned on all the lights in the bedroom. Unfortunately Jeff favored low
lighting in the bedroom. Stronger lighting would have been better for his
pictorial record, but he would have to make do.

He had about ten minutes left before Jeff would recover enough
consciousness to appreciate what was happening to him. He used the time to
go downstairs and clean up. He washed his wineglass and put it back on the
shelf. Jeff had a set of twelve glasses, and he put the one he had used at
the back. He wiped every surface he might have touched and made sure that
he would be able to retrieve his suit coat and tie quickly. He could leave
in a matter of seconds. He found the remote and switched on the TV. The
noise would provide cover.

He took a few pictures of Jeff's helpless body to pass the time while the
sedative wore off. He would wait until Jeff was awake enough to realize his
predicament before he began. It always took a few moments after they began
waking for his partners to realize that they were bound hand and foot, that
the reason they couldn't see was that they were blindfolded, and that the
only sounds they could force from their throats were meaningless
grunts. Jeff was no different. His initial response was to attempt to roll
over and sit up. It took him several tugs on the ropes to comprehend the
restrictions on his movements. He lifted his head and turned it from side
to side, trying to see around the tape. His jaw and tongue worked
convulsively as he endeavored to force the gag from behind his front teeth
and out of his mouth.

Perhaps Jeff could imagine what he looked like. He had to have seen
pictures of men in a similar predicament. Most guys knew what it meant to
be tied face down, spread-eagled, unable to see, and with a gag forcing
their jaws painfully apart. And most guys panicked at this point. Jeff was
no different. He began struggling violently against the ropes, trying to
raise himself up and making muffled, inarticulate noises. Jeff had been
right about that—no one would hear what went on in his bedroom that
night. Well, no one but the two of them.

He liked to watch them thrash about. He never said anything. He stood
absolutely still. For all Jeff knew, he was tied up and alone. Perhaps he
was thinking that he had been robbed. Maybe he was wondering how long it
would be before anyone missed him, how many days he would have to wait
until some colleague from work grew worried enough to check up on
him. Maybe no one would care, and he wouldn't be discovered until his
downstairs neighbor noticed his mail going uncollected and smelled the
stench coming from upstairs and called the police to break the door down.

He never said anything. He didn't have a need to explain himself or boast
or taunt his partners. He wasn't there to make conversation, at least not
verbal conversation. He had other ways of making his point. He let his
tools doing his talking. He always began with a whipping. It was effective
and efficient. He didn't bother with a gradual buildup, a slow progression
that allowed his partner's endorphins to kick in and help him endure the
pain. No, he wanted each lash of the whip to generate a sudden, shocked
screech followed by a long wail of agony. He swung the whip as hard as he
could. It blasted without warning across the top of Jeff's
shoulders. Jeff's reaction was all that he hoped for. The bed shook as he
shuddered convulsively and jerked on all four ropes at once, flung his head
back, and howled. The red welt left by the lash was perfect.

He paused for a minute or two between each stroke, letting Jeff
think—hope—that maybe each blow had been the last. Jeff was like most
of his partners. At first he thrashed about as his body absorbed the echoes
of the pain. The gag muffled his screams and frustrated his attempts to beg
for mercy, but he kept raising his head and turning it from side to side in
his efforts to speak. He had to wait each time for Jeff to subside and
present a quiet surface. He wanted the welts to be a half-inch or so apart
down the length of Jeff's back and across his buttocks and the backs of his
thighs. Of course, perfection wasn't possible. Jeff was crying and moving
about too much to allow that. Some of the welts were too close together. He
could have secured Jeff more tightly, but the restraints needed to do that
would have covered too much of Jeff's body and prevented him from creating
the pattern he wanted. Once he had administered the whipping while the
partner was unconscious. The pattern had been perfect, but he missed the
screams. One had to decide what mattered most, and for him, the partner's
consciousness of just how much pain he was inflicting added to his
enjoyment.

Jeff's struggles lost vigor around the tenth blow. That often
happened. Each blow still caused the body to tense up and arch, but
something happened. Sooner or later, the partner's mind or body begin to
give up, to surrender to the pain. Some of them even appeared to start to
enjoy it. It was a mystery. If his partners had been voluntary, he might
have discussed it with them. But perhaps not. He wasn't curious about their
views of what was happening to them, and that would inevitably be their
focus—themselves. No, he was interested in learning why the body and
mind reacted as they did so that he could exploit it. He would have liked
to know how to delay the acceptance, the surrender, and how to prolong that
initial agony, maybe even to make it grow. By the end, Jeff was crying. He
couldn't see the tears because of the blindfold, but Jeff was
sniveling. The gag made swallowing difficult, and the sheet around his
mouth grew wet with spit and snot.

The butt plug wasn't large. It was big enough for Jeff to protest when he
thrust it in, but Jeff had probably had bigger things up his ass. He
finished the last stroke with the electrical cord and then, while Jeff was
waiting for the next blow, he quickly lubed the working end of the plug and
stuffed it in. Jeff had no warning that he was about to be invaded. Enough
time had passed that he had tensed his body in preparation for the next
blow from the lash. Jeff's clenched buttocks which made it difficult to
insert the plug, especially since his fingers were slippery from the
lube. He had to push the ass cheeks apart and ram the plug in. It was a new
pain, a different sort. Jeff gave a pig-like squeal, and his head jerked up
and back. A long groan erupted from Jeff's chest—whether from the pain
or the terror provoked by this new assault he couldn't tell. It was
probably both.

The latex gloves he was wearing were covered with lube. He peeled them off
and threw them into the baggie he kept in his briefcase just for such
trash. He put on another pair before continuing. He attached the wires
leading from the butt plug to the electrical transformer. It took him a
moment to locate a wall socket. Jeff's place dated from an era when people
hadn't had as many electrical goods and didn't need a socket every few
feet. Luckily the transformer had a long cord. He made a mental note to add
an extension cord to his briefcase in case he found himself in a place
without a near enough socket.

He set the dial at the lowest setting. He had tried the same model of plug
once on himself. The electrical shock delivered at the minimum setting
didn't hurt. At least he didn't think so. But he had known the electrical
pulse was coming. It was a surprise for Jeff. His body lifted up by the
hips when the shock came. A long, drawn out wail came from this throat. It
sounded like he might have been shouting "no."

He took his time increasing the frequency and intensity of the shocks. At
first he got the reaction he wanted. Jeff was screaming behind the gag and
begging. There weren't any words, but he could tell Jeff was begging. But
then Jeff just gave up. He surrendered. He barely even bothered to moan or
protest the flare of pain that surged through his groin with each pulse of
electricity. That was the sign he had been waiting for.

He undid the ropes from the bottom bedposts. Grasping Jeff by the ankles,
he flipped him over, causing Jeff to screech in pain as his arms crossed
above his head. He quickly retied the ropes securing Jeff's ankles. He
untied each wrist rope separately and rebound the arms. Jeff didn't even
struggle and try to take advantage of the momentary freeing of his
limbs. He just let his legs and arms be moved into their new
positions. Jeff's chest was heaving as he tried to breathe over the shock
of the stripes of raw flesh on his backside rubbing against the sheet.

Jeff barely even flinched as he tightened the metal ring just beneath the
head of his cock. The pain was keeping Jeff's cock soft and deflated, and
he was able to fasten the ring around the cock so tightly that the flesh
bulged out on either side. Nor did Jeff react when he fastened a second
ring so that it encircled the base of Jeff's cock and ball sack. Jeff's
mind was otherwise occupied. The half-inch metal ring pushed the balls up
into a tight sphere and held the penis erect. It was tight enough to
constrict the blood supply, and Jeff's cock began to harden. Jeff noticed
the unyielding ring around his cock then, and he began to plead again. It
sounded as if he were trying to say "please stop" over and over, but all
that came out was something like "eee aw."

Jeff was thrashing about so much that he couldn't attach the alligator
clamps to his nipples. He slapped Jeff's face and hissed, "Lie still." But
Jeff wasn't paying attention. He grabbed the electrical box and turning the
setting to the highest level. Jeff's body convulsed in pain and practically
levitated off the mattress. When the pulse stopped, he dropped back on the
bed. Mercifully the pain had been enough of a shock that Jeff remained
still long enough for him to clamp the nipples. But he was annoyed by
Jeff's inconsiderate lack of cooperation, and he made no effort to ease
them on. He opened them to the full extent, positioned them over the tips
of the nipples, and then released them. Jeff screamed again.

"That's what happens when you don't behave. Next time I tell you to lie
still, lie still."

He attached the wires leading from the clamps and the rings around Jeff's
cock and balls to the transformer. Again he began at the lowest sitting and
gradually increased the frequency and intensity of the shocks. Jeff wasn't
going anywhere now. He could take his time.

Each shock brought a new wave of moans. As the intensity increased, Jeff's
muscles began shaking involuntarily. As the pulses grew stronger, his arms
and legs began to spasm, and his hips thrust into the air. His cock grew
hard and began to throb. Even in the dim light, Jeff's body gleamed from
the film of sweat, and lines of drool seeped from the corners of his mouth.

Jeff must either have been in so much pain that his body wasn't responding
as most men's did or had recently ejaculated. It took almost twenty minutes
of shocks at the maximum setting before his cock hardened and the
involuntary pelvic thrusts began. He loved that. He loved controlling his
partners so much that their bodies betrayed them and he could force them to
have an orgasm. Jeff's cock began to leak pre-cum, and his cock jerked
erect as each pulse of electricity charged through his body. But Jeff
wasn't enjoying his erection. That wasn't part of the plan. His erect cock
was a tower of glowing agony.

Jeff's entire body convulsed when he came. The first three jets of cum shot
a yard into the air. Jeff's balls churned out another three spurts, before
the streams of cum subsided into an oozing stream. He recorded all of it
with his phone and snapped several shots of Jeff's body while the cum was
still white and gleaming.

He turned the transformer off and detached the wires. He unplugged the
cord, wound it around the unit, and returned the transformer to his
briefcase. He took an auto-injector pen from his briefcase and stuck it in
Jeff. Jeff was so far gone that he didn't even register the prick of the
needle on his thigh. This sedative worked as quickly as the first one, but
it lasted longer. Jeff would be out for hours.

He gave Jeff five minutes to make sure the sedative was working and then
undid the ropes around the bedposts. He left the ropes attached to the
wrists and ankles. When Jeff woke up, he could untie them himself. He also
left all the attachments. The tape blindfold and the gag were saturated
with Jeff's DNA, as were undoubtedly the plug, the clamps, and the
rings. He also left the whip he had made from the electrical cord. Jeff
could have all of them—souvenirs of his ordeal. Nothing he was taking
with him had touched Jeff. He would buy or make replacements for the stuff
he left. He had been careful to handle everything with gloves before
stowing each item in his briefcase. There was no trace evidence on them
that would lead to him. None of the items cost much. He regarded them as
acceptable losses. He bought what he needed before each trip and was
careful to shop in different locations. The electrical cord had been an
inspired addition to his briefcase. He would use that particular device
again. It would be easy to make another. Even his local drugstore carried
similar cords in its small electronics section.

He doublechecked to make sure that he was taking the two used auto-injector
pens. Unfortunately those could be traced to him—purchases of sedatives
were recorded. But he felt that was a minor risk. He had a legitimate
reason for buying them, and in the unlikely event that anyone tested Jeff's
blood for drugs, the sedatives he had used were commonly available, and he
was simply one of thousands of people with access to them.

All in all, it had been a good night's work. He had a new set of memories,
and a new set of pictures and videos to add to his
collection. Unfortunately some of the images would be darker than he
preferred, but they were clear enough to provide him with the stimulation
he needed. He would have to find some source of lighting he could bring
with him. He needed to devote some research and thought to that problem. So
many people didn't have adequate lighting in their homes. It was a
nuisance. People could be so inconsiderate.

He felt calmer now. His cravings would subside for a few weeks. He would
have plenty of time to plan his next trip before the need grew in him again
and he had to venture out. Plenty of time to locate more sources of
potential partners for his next artwork.

White-collar professionals were the best. Lawyers, doctors,
businessmen—they were so vulnerable. It was so easy to con them. They
were so quick to trust another member of their tribe, someone who looked
like them, someone who appeared to share their outlook and values. They
never suspected just who it was that they were inviting into their
lives. They couldn't imagine themselves as "victims" of
violence. Victimization wasn't part of their life style. It wasn't on their
bucket lists. Violence overwhelmed them. They surrendered so completely;
they never fought back. They hadn't steeled themselves to endure pain. They
screamed and sobbed and begged and pleaded. He liked screaming and sobbing
and begging and pleading.

An added bonus was that they rarely revealed what had happened to
them. They were too embarrassed to confess to the cops or even a doctor
that their dick had led them to invite a predator into their home, that
secure haven that would shortly become the scene of the worst hours of
their lives. No, they buried what had happened to them deep in the vaults
of their minds. Or tried to. But forgetting wasn't an option. Those hours
with him were too corrosive to erase so easily from the old memory
banks. He made sure of that. No, his visits were etched deep into their
minds.

Did they have nightmares about him? Or did their evening with him become
the stuff of fantasy, to be revisited as they jerked off to their memories?
Perhaps he had introduced them to the pleasures of pain. Did they begin to
seek out others like him? Did they look back later and thank him for the
initiation? Did vanilla sex no longer cut it with them?

Contamination and infection. Those were his gifts to his partners. He
contaminated the spaces in which they lived. They would never again be able
to feel secure inside their homes. And he infected their minds, poisoning
them with memories and desires. They would never again be certain that they
were in control of their urges, that their psyche's needs and demands would
not betray them. That was a lesson everyone should learn.

He took a final look around Jeff's bedroom to make sure that he hadn't
overlooked anything that might be used as evidence. When he was satisfied,
he switched off the lights and went downstairs. He put his tie and coat
back on and switched off the television and the lights. A moment later he
stood outside Jeff's house. The street was deserted. He stripped off the
gloves and stuck them in a pocket. He would discard them later. He walked
three blocks over and hailed a cab. He had it drop him off two blocks away
from the twenty-four hour parking garage where he had left his car. As he
walked toward the entrance, he paused briefly as if to rub one of his eyes
and eased the green contact lens out. He dropped it on the sidewalk and
ground it into dust beneath his shoe. He discarded the second lens a
hundred feet away. In the privacy of his car, he removed the wig he had
been wearing and cut it into two-inch squares, tossing each piece into the
trash bag with the gloves and injector pens on the passenger seat.  When he
got on the interstate, he would discard the trash a piece at a time when he
was confident he wouldn't be seen. No one would connect such bits of
roadside litter.

Jeff wouldn't have recognized the man who drove off.