Hour 2

He listens to her heavily muffled screams and turns up the tv, not bothering to look at the screen. He paces the shadowed hallway, makes an aimless tour of the kitchen, back to the living room, beer in hand untouched and getting warmer by the second. He pauses by the television again, adjusting his crotch; he's been hard and completely adrenalin-buzzed for a couple of hours now, well before dragging her into the house through the door at the back of his garage...punching her in the face...stuffing her panties in her mouth, duct taping around her head for good measure. The plastic handcuffs he'd cinched tight around her wrists and ankles had been slippery with sweat; he wasn't sure whose.

Staring unseeing ahead, face lit by the bluish glow of the screen, he methodically ticks off The List in his head: equipment, target acquisition, tracking, timing, concealment. All checked and double-checked. Triple-checked. And now...she's restrained, terrorized, and utterly helpless in the next room. His room, his house....he fucking owns the little bitch.

He's about to run through The List again when a change in the sounds issuing from behind the closed door of the bedroom prompts him to turn the tv volume down again, head tilted, concentrating. A moment later he identifies the dull thudding as her heels drumming the hardwood; he sets his beer on the table hastily, almost spilling it, and in two strides bursts through the door.

The sight that greets him hauls him up short; he can't help but stop to savor it. His eyes travel in a leisurely fashion from her feet, strapped to a wooden spreader, up her splayed thighs, to her pussy, where the cheap rough sisal rope between her legs and attached to her bound wrists pulls taut as her hands strain for the chain around her neck, making a purple-red gash of her swelling, abraded labia; her face is the color of port wine, foamy spittle drizzles from the corner of her mouth, eyes bulge. He watches her buck and twitch, kick and twist, overturned metal folding chair beside her, ass inches from the floor. Her struggles to get her spread feet under her are magnificent to behold; better than a train wreck, what with all the near-slapstick slipping and sliding in the spreading puddle of urine below.

He waits, entranced, until her movements are weak and slow, before untying and releasing the block-and-tackle pulleys bolted to the ceiling: equipment item #8. A similar arrangement awaits them in the basement; he's fond of suspension rigs, though she's hardly heavy enough to warrant the elaborate slaughterhouse gear. Her body slumps to the floor.

He steps gingerly around the pool of urine, crouching to grab a fistful of dark hair, lifting her head from the floor; her face is returning to its natural ivory coloring, perhaps a shade paler, her breathing wheezy and wet-sounding. "Starting without me, cunt? Unacceptable." He lets her head drop to the floor, watches it bounce, cuts the rope from her wrists, freeing her scraped labia and perineum. Her wrists retied securely behind her, he lets them drop as well.

He rights the chair, setting it carefully on its legs, leaning into one palm on the metal back as his other hand, at his waist, unbuckles, unbuttons, unzips. His cock springs free, achingly hard; he glances at her still form, still huddled at his feet. Easing into the chair, he reaches for the pulley rope, feeding it from one hand to another, pulling steadily, smiling at her strangled shriek as he yanks her by her neck to an awkward squat. His arm circles her waist; he scoops her into his lap and onto his cock in a single fluid motion, driving into her bruised, chafed cunt, her back arching tightly, lifting her breasts to his face. He draws up the slack, wraps the rope once, twice around his hand, and pulls...

Hour 6

He peers critically through the camera's lens, sharpening focus with tiny twists of the ocular. Her small rounded ass fills the frame, the soft globes of her cheeks striped with narrow raised red welts, most of them beaded with small droplets of coagulating blood; her rectum bruised, torn, and gaping, oozing a rivulet of creamy semen trickling down over her shaved perineum.

He sighs contentedly. The light is perfect; she seems to glow from within, her tightly-bound wrists nestled in the soft concavity at hip level behind her, her hands slowly turning dusky blue in the small of her back. The side of her face is pressed to the floor, dark strands of her hair trailing in a puddle of blood-tinged drool; her jaw held firmly open by the ring gag, her swollen, cracked lips stretched tight as rubber bands. Her tongue lolls like a blind worm in a fruitless attempt to moisten them, then retreats again into the hot wet darkness behind the leather-wrapped metal ring. He glances at the camcorders, tiny green lights still blinking reassuringly; tempted to check whether they've successfully captured his cock forced into her throat, her thrashing, gagging, gurgling struggles for air...but no, the light won't last, and he wants a shot of the long abrasion along her ribs and waist, scraped into her pale skin as the dog's dewclaws repeatedly raked her flanks, his knot buried behind the tight ring of muscle, flickering in and out of view, streaked with blood, her sphincter clamping around it convulsively as she'd choked on his own invading cock from the other end.

He sidesteps, crouching, feeling his way with the ball of of his foot, and takes his shot, making sure the camera is placed carefully on a small stand and the lens cap is firmly seated before he unclips his knife and slices her wrists free of the plastic handcuffs; he's found it pays to be meticulous about his equipment. He watches her fingers twitch feebly as the blood rushes back into them, hands fluttering to floor at her sides like dying moths. Her green eyes are half-closed and glazed, unfocused; he glances at her chest, her little breasts squashed against the hardwood, fresh purple and blue finger-shaped bruises defining the shadowed curves. Her ribcage expands and contracts almost imperceptibly with her shallow breathing.

He nudges her with the toe of his boot; she rolls to her side compliantly, curling into a fetal position, eyes closing with a wince that fleetingly animates her slack face . "Look at me, bitch." Her eyes fly open; she blinks and tries to focus on him.

"Is your cunt wet, slut?"

Her eyes widen, brimming with tears; slowly she twists her head from one side to the other, a silent "no," curling her trembling fingers into loose fists, helplessly gripping air.

He places a booted foot on her neck, lug sole resting lightly over her throat; it ripples as she swallows painfully against the mild pressure, more viscous drool trickling from her gag. "Spread your legs, bitch." Obediently she parts her thighs; the hairless seam between them glistens in the failing light. He arches his brow pointedly as his gaze travels from her cunt to her eyes, her pupils dilated and luminous with terror.

He leans down, looming over her, one palm on his upraised knee, increasing the pressure on her throat. She stares back at him, tears finally flowing again, her sobs distorted by the gag and his foot into wet gurgles interspersed with gulping gasps for air. "You smeared your shit on my dog's cock." His voice is low, soft; more conversational than menacing. "You'll clean it up. Now."

Her eyes flick toward the animal, stretched out on a fleece-covered dog bed in the the corner behind him, snoring softly. Her eyes close briefly; a look of utter exhaustion crosses her face as she opens them again, rolling stiffly to her hands and knees. He aims a kick at her anyway, smiling as his boot smacks her solidly in the cheekbone, raising a strangled moan. She stops short, gathering the leash trailing from her collar and lifting it toward his hands, head bowed. He scowls impatiently, gesturing silently with a jerk of his head at the dog, reaching for his camera instead. She continues her crawl to the sleeping animal; the dog stirs...lifts his head to look at her...rises to his feet, yawning and stretching, then sniffing the air. He watches the dog begin to pant with a wolfish grin through the viewfinder, returning the animal's smile as he zooms in on her face.

Hour 19

He finishes his beer and turns the cd player up before returning to the room where she crouches on her knees in the metal dog crate. Her head, hooded in a thin plastic garbage bag, swivels as she strains to follow the sound of his footsteps; otherwise she remains motionless. He comes to a stop a few feet from the cage and watches as her breathing deepens and speeds, sucking the plastic against her nose and mouth, then shaking her head and puffing out short frantic breaths, shuddering as she struggles to regain control. Her thin pale back is curved over her thighs; the cage isn't tall enough for her to sit upright. The bamboo strips, paper-thin and translucent, razor-sharp, follow the curl of her spine in a spiked, blood-drizzled dragon pattern, each one pushed through skin and muscle, framed by drying gore at entrance and exit. Her wrists, crossed and tied behind her, are striped brownish red; her little ass below is smeared with drying blood and shit. He shakes his head slowly, smiling. Every breath must hurt like hell...

He takes another step and reaches for the lock on the cage, the keys jingling in his hand. She freezes, holding her breath. He pulls the door wide and reaches in for the chain around her neck, grinning as she shuffles toward him on her knees without so much as his slap on the crate, head bowed even after clearing the cage door. He swings around behind her and flips the chain once, lightly; it tightens around her neck and then loosens again. "Sit up." He steps around front again as she straightens her back.

Lengths of 16 gauge wire pushed through her small breasts and vulva gleam under the bare bulb overhead; the blood trickle from each piercing drying on her ribs and thighs, flaking off. He contemplates another round of heating the wires with a handheld propane torch; her shrieking and growling into the rubber ball gag made him hard, and the incoherent gurgling when he followed up with a liberal splash of alcohol was even better; his cock twitches at the memory. Reluctantly he lets the thought go; she smells cooked, and he has doubts about whether she has much in the way of nerve-endings left to fry in those spots anyway.

He sighs. She holds herself as still as a statue, kneeling on cement, knees and shins bruised and scraped, wrists raw under the ropes biting into her flesh, breathing soft and slow and shallow. He watches the black plastic make tiny movements near her nose and mouth, suddenly exhausted. It's been a long night.

Almost hesitantly he reaches over and loosens the red ties, then pulls the bag from her head. She blinks in the light, her hair falling damp with sweat around her face, long dark streaks of runny mascara striping her cheeks, her lipstick smeared. So fucking beautiful, he thinks, fragile as a china doll, her bones dry twigs begging to be broken in his fingers. He takes a deep breath; he's hard again, his cock straining against his zipper.

"You're a mess, sweetheart." He reaches for the torch on the table, passing on the chewed-up gag lying next to it for the moment; her eyes follow his hand. "Not very appealing." He thumbs the button on the lighter; at the whisper of it's tiny roar her eyelids flutter closed; a tear rolls down her cheek. An almost subliminal sound draws his eyes between her thighs, spread to avoid the sharp wire ends piercing her labia, caging her little cunt: a small pool of urine is growing larger on the concrete. His smile widens; he flicks the torch off. "I know you can do better, baby. That's why I've been so very patient with you..." he says gently, reaching to brush her dark hair from her face. She stiffens at his touch; her dark eyes fly open. "I'm happy to take my time with you. I know how much this means to you, how much you want it." His fingertips trace the makeup streaks on her cheek; he slips his hand under her chin, cupping it tenderly, tipping her face up toward his. "Would you like to tell me how much you want it?" The chain around her throat flashes as she swallows; he watches her mouth open, her lips move soundlessly. He nods gravely, releasing her chin. "That's alright, baby girl. I can do this..." He considers her, his tilted to one side, his narrowed eyes distant, calculating. He gives her a small shrug. "...indefinitely." In his hands, the torch flares to life.