The following story is a purely fictional account. Any relationship to any real person living or dead is absolutely coincidental. The narrative deals with torture and slaughter of innocent human beings. The author in no way condones or promotes such acts. This is the world of fantasy and fiction where the hidden corners of the psyche may be studied. The author believes that exploring such subject matter in this realm keeps it from ever needing to be explored, and much less fulfilled, in real life. There is violence in all of us. Otherwise there would be no crime, no war, no destruction. We must acknowledge the beast inside of us if we are to tame it. To ignore it and repress it is to invoke its appearance in our midst. 

                              Julie

1. The Capture
(Wednesday 10 PM)

(There are subtle female movements only the trained predatorial eye can catch, subconscious, subliminal but inescapable, instinctive and not calculated. There is some deep female longing, some seductive willingness to be taken, to be brutally hunted down. Those sometimes nearly imperceptible female movements implying submission register automatically, even before the killer is consciously aware of it, in her walk, in the way she uses her hands, in the way her eyes tease and then look away, coming back inexorably to the killers stern and hungry gaze,  attracted, intrigued, captivated. And once he locks in, once he is sure she is the victim, then pre-meditation begins, the involved process of logistics, strategy and the minimization of risk.  Because to do it and get away with it is such an intense high, to walk later among ordinary people knowing you have spilled a young female life, listened to her screams and emptied your balls in her warm dying flesh.)

	That’s how we arrive at the moment late that night on the parking lot, sometime after ten, after you’ve ended your shift at Walker’s. 
	The killer has seen you inside the restaurant already, has passed right by you while you showed the customers to the tables, close enough to smell the scent you wear (a vague girlish hint of wild flowers), close enough for the fabric of your dress to brush his arm.  In fact, he has been there several times before but you haven’t noticed him.  He has spaced his visits apart by several days to keep you from remembering his face.  He has watched you for nearly a month, learned the little routines of your daily life. He’s watched you drive to the aerobics class on Tuesdays and Thursdays in your copper Saturn, pulling up right alongside of you on a rainy morning to watch your pretty face profiled behind the blur of raindrops on the glass, studying you from the lobby of the exercise spa as you ran on the treadmill, your strong bare legs pumping, sweat-glossed, firm.  He’s watched you in the mall and in the park with your children studying carefully the almost careless tumble of your brown hair over your face and shoulders, the slight pout of your lips, your playfulness, but mostly the haunting sadness in your chestnut-hued eyes as you stared into shop windows unaware of his presence. Yes. He has been close enough to smell you.  And the scent of your flesh along with those clear, unmistakable messages in your body language, has made him hard.
	Very hard.
	He has come for you and now, as you step out on to the dark parking lot outside Walker’s, tired, bound for home after the end of your shift, he can feel the impersonal weight of the gun in his hand, a nine millimeter Ruger P89 automatic, a hardness which mirrors his own, hard flesh, as he yanks the Dodge Caravan’s side door open and steps up behind you to put the weapon against the softness of your hair above your left ear.
	You are caught completely unaware, off balance.
	“Get in the van or die.”
	The words are blade-sharp.
	He speaks his command to the back of your head and you are startled and begin to turn.  No one has spoken to you like that. Not for a long time.
	Incongrously the memory of your wedding day races across your mind; that moment when the trail of your long white gown snagged on the head of a nail protruding from a bench in church as you walked up the aisle, tugging, threatening to rip but coming loose at the last moment, just before you turned to look.  And also then, briefly, other distant memories, a sudden flash of a lonely road on a terrible night long before, a gray penitentiary building rising from the morning mist, a hypnotic voice,  a slow stroking hand - you, eleven years old, in the mirror, nude.
	Now you turn and as you do he grabs you by one arm, pulling you toward the van’s door.
	Pulled close to him you smell a sharp musky scent of after-shave. 
	You stumble, off balance.  He holds you up and you give out a short cry as you swing toward him and see first the gun, black, metallic, then his stony impassive face in the pale glow of the halogen street lamp.
	It is a chiseled face with no soft edges, as smooth and unreadable as the side of an iceberg.  He is dark haired and dark eyed, pupils like smouldering coals, thin lips, bulging neck, sharply-cut jaw.  In another life he was a military man, a young lieutenant caught up in jungle warfare, his mind forever twisted by terror and cruelty and before that by the lusftul depravity of his murderous father.  Now he fights different battles - one-on-one battles he will have no chance of ever losing, battles in which no prisioners will be taken and no quarter given.
	He raises the barrel to your forehead, just above the bridge of your nose.
	The image of a shotgun leaning against the wall in the bedroom of the cabin in the mountains where you spent summer vacation as a child races through your mind - long, cold, barrel pointed at the ceiling. Then you are eighteen, naked on your knees in a long ago motel room drunk, dizzy, your hands tied behind you, a cruel stranger standing over you and calling you names pushing his long, fat cock in your face, your cheeks stinging from his slaps.
	Then you see the eyes of this killer for the first time.  There is no compassion, no compromise.  If you do not obey you know what the consequences will be: a hot flash, a spiraling tumble to the asphalt, blood jetting from your pretty skull.
	
(I have watched in  the pornographic videos when a woman gives herself to gangs of pumped -up, big-cocked men, and seen the waves of surrender course through sweaty female bodies, her head falling forward, her mouth gaping, mascara-ringed eyes sliding back out of focus, the drowning in pleasure as the bitch is plundered in her cunt and in her ass and in her mouth becoming a fuck-toy, a hole for the gang-bang males who circle around jerking off, each waiting their turn.)

	So you let him lead you, your heart beating fast (for is this not ultimately the moment that, deep within yourself, you, like most women most want and most fear?) taking a step up now into the van, your beige knit dress sliding half way up your slender stockinged thigh as he half-pushes you in.  The cabin light is off and it is dark but you’re still able to see that the inside of the vehicle is clean, devoid of personal belongings.  And then he enters behind you, manhandling you the rest of the way, the cold gun barrel against the side of your face.
	His other hand pushes something into your belly as you half-crouch, half sit on the rear passenger seat of the van. Your cashmere sweater is half open and you feel whatever it is, hard against the fabric of your dress, against your ribs.
	“Put ‘em on...now.”
	His voice is a hissing whisper. It is demanding and inflexible. Unyielding.
	“Do it.”
	How can you not? You are female; you’re first instinct, the one you have been brought up to, is obedience and submission.
	You reach down and feel the handcuffs, cold open metal rings awaiting your delicate wrists.
	The gun is pressed hard to your right temple.
	His eyes observe you in the darkness.
	Haven’t you been here before?
	Obedience or death.
	You obey.
	(That sweet moment when she does as I say. Obedient. Wether willing or unwilling. I watch for that moment too when the sluts in the videos give in, obey, comply.  Who knows why they  do so? Money? Drugs? Force? Or just something so sweetly female , a weakness, that is willing, so intimately  and co-operatively willing, to bend?  Like the women that were solicited over the internet  by their killer who tortured them, slaughtered them and stuffed them into metal barrels on his property.  Like the young whore  in the porn video who takes what is demanded, her face slapped hard, hard cock of her Master,  fresh from fucking her up the asshole, choking her, his hands clutching her hair and holding her in place before he pisses all over her face and in her mouth and in her throat. Obedient to the point of self-destruction, to the bitter end, willing to go the distance for their butcher-master.)

	The handcuffs click shut, your hands prayerfully trapped in front of you.  He reaches down under the front seat and draws out a short stretch of chain.  With a snap-hook he clips your handcuffs to it so that your hands are pulled downward
toward the floor between your legs, your sweater bunched up around your neck. The image of shackled black slaves in an old Portugese galleon passes through your mind, the rotten stench of old wood and human shit. It is a thought that makes you quiver involuntarily. Then your captor puts his gun back into a shoulder holster under his trench coat.  
	You’re more aware of him, now, of his clothes and his man-smell.  Under the expensive coat which is unbuttoned he wears a black t-shirt, jeans, weathered cowboy boots; beneath his left arm, the leather gun-holster.
	The van smells brand new and the windows are tinted. There is no one outside in the parking lot and even if there was they would not see.
	And how long would you live if you cried out?
	“Make trouble for me and you’re a dead cunt,” he snarls as if reading your thoughts.  His voice reduces you, diminishes you, empties you of the will to resist.  And even though your first and most sane impulse is to flee, to bolt, there is something in you that needs to go along, to obey that voice - and those clear defining words: ‘dead cunt’ - something in you that has been waiting to obey, deep and hidden, lurking in your sad brown eyes -waiting since that night long ago on that nearly deserted road.
	Just then the restaurant door opens and two men step into the parking lot, the last two patrons.  
	Even though you’re forced to crouch down by the chain you can peer over the back of the seat and through the tinted windshield.
	You know them.  For a moment they stop at the door as Todd locks up after them.
	They are regulars at Walker’s:  Bill Kirkwood, the guy from the Century 21 office down the street at the edge of town and Stan Robeson who owns the Amoco station at the intersection of Vine and Hamill. They are walking toward the van.  Maybe they have seen what is happening and are on their way help you.  You cling desperately to that sudden possibility of salvation. But the men do not move with any urgency. They merely saunter casually toward the parked vehicle.
	Paying no attention to the men outside, the hunter has leaned down to snap another set of cuffs around your ankles.  You feel the cold grip of metal through your panty-hose as he pulls you down with effortless strength to the carpeted floor of the van.  Another snap-hook clips your cuffed ankles to a chain under the rear passenger seat.  Roughly he grabs your head by the hair with one strong hand.  Your face is level with his ankles, your legs twisted under you as he pushes what feels like a wash-towel against your lips.  You try to resist, to turn your head, a soft moan in your throat.
	“Open your fuckin’ mouth or I’ll rip your tongue out of your head.”
	How can you do anything else?  The wash-cloth is pushed forcefully almost all the way down your throat, almost but not quite choking you, and then a piece of rope is wrapped tightly over your mouth and around your neck. How can you fight it when deep inside you may have been waiting for this, dreaming of it for so long, talking about it to strangers on the Internet when Tim couldn’t see? 
	And now all you feel is terror. Mindless panic. 
	Where are the two men? Has the killer seen them? Surely they will bring the police and stop this. Your limbs tremble involuntarily as he lets you fall on your side, your head at his booted feet (where you belong?).
	And then, with a sudden metallic rush, the door of the van slides open.
	Thank God, you scream inside.
	It will all be over soon. The police must be on the way already with their sirens turned off so as not to give themselves away.
	Stan and Bill stand there silouhetted in the street-lamp glow.
	They just stand there.
	...looking.
	Your head cranes up and to one side to stare up at them with pleading eyes.
	They stare back.
	Hope vanishes.
	There will be no rescue. No police.
	You can see that in their faces.
	Incredibly, these two men you’ve dealt with every single day, these men you thought of as good men, family men, men who you thought of as pillars of the community, husbands, fathers, members of the Seabrook Chamber of Commerce, sponsors of little league baseball, organizers of the yearly spring carnival, men whom you’ve served breakfast, lunch and dinner and who have smiled warmly and left you generous tips, these men are in on this.  They are on the killer’s side.
	“You guys were absolutely right,” the killer says.
	There is a sense of camarederie between them.
	They are hunting buddies.
	“She’s a real real fine piece of ass.”
	His cowboy boot rides up on your hip.
	“Told you,” Bill says.
	For years he’s been coming to Walker’s. He’s shown you pictures of his young daughter, Leanne. Once, last year, on a bitterly cold January day, he even gave you a boost when the battery on the Saturn died.
	His voice now is different than you remember it. And yet it is the same voice.  Calm, easy-going, polite.
	“We figured you’d like her. I know I’ve had my eye on ‘er for quite some time. Almost couldn’t believe she ended up being a target.”
	Then Stan speaks.  His eyes look down into your face hungrily.
	“This little slut is given me some memorable hard-ons waitin’ on me in there, shaking her little butt and smiling for her fuckin’ tip.  You’re not smilin’ much now, are you, Julie?”
	Your name, spoken for the first time, drifts up into the cold night.
	“Julie.” The hunter repeats it.  His eyes sparkle devilishly as he glances down on you, his boot pressing into your hip-bone.  “Julie Winnfried - such a simple, white-bread, suburban housewife name.  Looks like sending that tape to the dude upstate was a good idea after all.”
	The men chuckle.
	“ - A great fuckin’ idea.”
	You wonder what kind of tape they could be talking about and how it could possibly connect with you.
	“Guess ole Tim’s gonna miss ‘er,” Stan says.
	“Hell, that pencil dick don’t know how to use his bitch.”
	“But we do,” the killer says staring down at you.
	“Shit, yeah.” Stan replies.
	“Fuckin’ right,” Bill adds, his lips downtwisted, sneering. “We know just what hot little sluts like this one really need.”
	“Yeah, and this pig needs it bad - fuckin’ tramp.”
	The word tears away at you, worse than a slap. They resonate strangely. 
	And, like an aftershock, the thought of Tim waiting late into the night and wondering what has happened makes you whine helplessly into the gag.  You think of your children, sleeping quietly in the bedroom at the end of the hall, the room dimly lit by the Little Mermaid night light. Your hands clench and un-clench helplessly.  	
	The killer bends down, leering as he delivers more hateful words:
	“We’re gonna show you what you were made for, bitch.  You may have thought you got away with your bullshit suburban lifestyle - playing your little miss housewife charade - but we’re gonna show you what a worthless piece of shit you really are underneath it all.”
	Then he looks at the other two man-shadows in the doorway of the van.
	“Later?”
	Stan nods.
	“We’ll be there,” Bill replies. “Go ahead and start the festivities without us.  We’ll join you Saturday.”
	“Same as last time,” Stan adds.  He reaches down to touch your face. His fingers are cold and you shrink from his touch, making a pitiful sound in your throat, tears spilling down your cheeks.
	The last time?  Have there been other times? Other victims?
	“Yeah. Guess we’ll be goin’ on another fishing trip,” Bill says softly.  He’s looking down at the way the top of your dress is hanging open, pulled almost off one shoulder under the flaps of your rumpled sweater.
	Stan’s fingers move down your neck to grip it softly.
	The killer chuckles.
	“Yeah. We sure do love to go fishin’.”
	His boot presses down into you.
	“We better get going,” Bill says to Stan, looking furtively around.
	The parking lot is deserted.  Walker’s is empty. Todd Richardson, the manager, will be closing down the kitchen in a few minutes, cleaning up and turning off the lights.
	Stan’s cold fingers leave you.
	“Later,” he says, still looking at you.
	The two men turn away.
	The killer slides the van door shut.
	You are alone with him again in the stifling stillness of the vehicle, the carpet threads prickly against your cheek.
	Your world has been shattered. The realization that your abduction has been planned by this stranger and his friends, men you’ve known since you’ve lived in Seabrook, that you have been stalked and captured like a helpless animal makes you
reel, an empty vertigo-like sensation in your belly.  And there is a deep-down dread that your kidnapping has roots in long ago events - events you’d thought you’d left behind years before.
	The killer reaches into the pocket of his coat for one last item which is made of black cloth and which he unfolds just above your face.  It’s a silk hood which he now slips over your head.
	The last thing you see is his smiling, gloating face.
	“Mmgghh!” you grunt.  You pull on your chains and make them rattle but the steel cuffs grip you.  This is a new terror, this flowing blackness sealing around you.  You hear the crunch of a velcro strap as the hood sleeve is pulled tight around the base of your neck. 
	“Ngghh! Nngghhff!”
	Suddenly, you feel the hem of your dress yanked upward to your hips and what can only be the gun barrel is pressed hard into the crotch of your exposed panty-hose, poking into you, right at the top of your pussy-slit.
	“Shut up or I’ll blow your goddamn cunt off...You hear me? Calm the fuck down...We’re going for a little ride, so get used to it.”
	Again the image of the shotgun propped up against the wall comes and goes through your mind.
	Gradually you stop struggling.
	“That’s right...” he whispers.  “Nice and quiet...good girl...Just remember my big gun can fuck you anytime you decide to get out of line. And it’ll fuck you right through your pantyhose and through those pretty blue panties.”
	He rubs the gun barrel gently against you. The cold steel targeting nub pushes against the satiny fabric and against your clit making you shiver.
	“It’ll fuck you all the way through your goddamn guts, pig.”
	And again, fleetingly, you are a naked child in front of a mirror, and someone is watching you with hungry leering eyes.
	You nod your hooded head conveying your acceptance of the killer’s terms.

	(I enjoy that moment the most, the moment when you know the bitch is yours and when she knows it too.  On the video screen you see it in her eyes.  Filthy bitch. So eager to please.  So eager to be wanted and needed.  Can you believe what they submit to? And then they turn around and say they do it for you - not because they like it - but because it pleases you.  Or they do it for a paycheck. Sluts.  Makes me want to cut their goddamn clits off.  That’s what they really deserve.  Those tribes in Africa got that shit right.  Everybody wants the Africans to stop. Not me.  Hell, as far as I’m concerned they should cut their fucking nipples right off too.  If you’re gonna do it, then do it up, man.  Go for the fuckin’ gold.)

	The gun pulls away. 
	You hear him return it to its holster, a rustle of steel against leather.  You sense him crouching there just staring at you. You can hear his slow steady breathing.
	Chained to the seats of the van, gagged and hooded, you lie maddeningly helpless.
	You don’t like it. You’re no longer in control. Your life is out of your hands.
	Then, you hear him step over you and slide into the driver’s seat.  The engine starts. The van begins to move.  
	Quietly, your sobs stifled by the washcloth, lost in complete darkness, you do what women have always done when hunted down and trapped, when bound and spirited away from their families and homes, when unjustly brought down by the insatiable lust to destroy that posesses the male heart.  You do what women do best, and what men most secretly enjoy watching...you cry.

2. First Kill

	The place is an abandoned warehouse outside Seabrook, far out of town on highway 251, by the old railroad track crossing.
	Bill Kirkwood acquired the property in the early nineties with Stan Robeson and their old Vietnam buddy, the bitch-killer Mike Kessler.
	Mike does not live in Seabrook. He lives in a secluded mansion left to him by his father up the road near Kerlin Bay, five miles south of Whitehall, and has never been seen around town or anywhere near the areas where victims have disappeared.
	At first the men used the warehouse to shoot fake S&M videos and fuck films, a business Mike was very familiar with and into which he’d easily talked the other two men, but it wasn’t long before things got more serious.  Seven months after the property became theirs and almost two million dollars had come in from their porn film business a seventeen year old girl named Sheila (if that was her real name), a runaway from Dallas who had taken up residence in Seabrook a couple of weeks earlier, had come to them, courtesy of an Internet contact.

(There is always something special about that first time.  It’s like opening a door and going through.  You can never repeat it, though you try to.  And you can never go back to the way things were before.  That little bitch was special in so many ways, a natural little slut, perfect whoremeat.  Slicing the life out of her
was an intensely beautiful act, never to be re-done, never to be forgotten.  I imagine men who have been in jail for years, who have been caught for such
homicidal exploits as we engaged in, even if they are on death row, are probably
deep inside grateful that they had the chance to do something most men only fantasize about, to do something most men don’t even want to accept is inside of them.  Men who have slaughtered women for pleasure know it is the most perfect satisfaction life has to offer.  How can there be remorse?  How can there be regret?  Once you’ve seen a  young pretty woman die for you there is no going back. You are a wolf with blood on your teeth.)

	“Slap me, pull my hair, spit on me, piss on me,” Sheila had told Kessler.
“Anything you want. I love it all.”
	She stood over his desk in a short black dress and clunky black sandals, a blue lace choker around her neck, holding a cigarette between long manicured fingers, her long nails painted bright blue with glittery designs on them, her face neutral, almost expressionless.
	“Take your dress off,” he told her simply, a disdainful half-smile on his lips.
	“I wanna see what you’ve got.”
	“Sure,” she said non-chalantly putting her purse in the chair and her cigarette down in the ashtray on the desk.  She reached down,  bending slightly to take the hem of the short dress in her hands.  The fabric made a faint silky sound as she lifted the cheap garment up off her slender body.
	 Above, in the ceiling, a panel of fluorescent light buzzed.
	Earlier, Kessler had watched from the second story window of the warehouse as she had driven up to the parking lot in an old, red, beat-up Mazda, watched her get out of the car, that pretty short black dress hiked way up to reveal long flawless legs, watched her climb the steps to his office, shoes clacking on the steel stairs, the cigarette dangling from her lips. 
	He’d guessed from looking at her she was probably not even eighteen yet. 
	That didn’t bother him.  Fake documents were easy to fabricate if the issue ever came up. 
	She was a little whore, making fuck videos for money, doing the things men liked to see. The Internet contact had told him she was an orphan with no living relatives.  She was exactly what he and the others had been looking for.
	When he’d spoken to her on the phone she’d agreed to be interviewed (or was ‘auditioned’ a better term?), ostensibly for a gang-bang video he was going to produce.
	He’d asked her if she’d seen his previous ‘work’.  She said she had.  She told him Jack, the Internet contact, a guy who owned a strip joint in Reno, had turned her on to ‘Bar Sluts’ and ‘Tied Down Tight’.  Both videos had strong mixes of S&M and violent gang rape sex. The kind of videos Stan, Bill and he loved to make, the kind of videos that sold like hot cakes.
	Now, the killer watched the teenage slut pull her black dress up over her head, fling it carelessly to the gray vynl couch, and turn brazenly to face him. 
	She still had a trace of babyfat on her cheeks - the vaguest hint of innocence hidden behind the hard hooker facade.
	The smoke from her cigarette in the ash tray wafted up toward the air-conditioning vent.
	He looked her over, letting his eyes roam over her juicy little pink-nippled tits and down the graceful curves of her abdomen and hips to the shaved triangle at the top of her lusciously plump thighs, then down her long slender legs to her small feet arched in the black sandals.  He noted she had a small toe-ring on her left foot and that her toe-nails were painted with the same gloss as her finger nails to match the blue choker around her neck.
	“Turn,” he ordered twirling his finger to indicate the action.
	Her small round ass was full, perfectly shaped and firm and there was a small red rose tattooed over her right butt-cheek.
	“Bend over,” he told her.
	She did so without the least hesitation uninhibitedly spreading her thighs wide to show him her lovely pink pussy, shaved, chubby like a tender plum between her
chunky asscheeks.  Her face looked up at him between her thighs, still neutral and
non-commital.
	She started to straighten up and turn around.
	“I didn’t tell you to move, did I?”
	There was an edge in his voice now, something she responded to without thinking.
	He made her stay there and stared at her face now just below her exposed
pussy and ass-holes.  She was trying not to show it but the non-commital, cool, street-hustler attitude had vanished.
	“Do you like me?” she asked.  Her tone of voice was no longer business-like or cool.  She sounded girlish, vulnerable, eager to please, the facade crumbling.
	His eyes strayed up to the pink wrinkled folds of her cunt and the dark indented puckered anus above it.  His cock swelled responsively to her sudden child-like quality as he inspected her.  
	“Like you? I wanna fuck you. I want the men I hire to fuck you. I want my cameras to fuck you and every man that watches my videos to fuck you in his head while he jerks off.  I want them to fantasize about treating you like a gutter whore and cumming on you and beating you and spitting on you and pissing on you...about trashing you just the way you know you deserve it? Am I right?”
	His eyes came back to hers, blunt, challenging.
	If she could take that she was going to be perfect.
	Her face was flushed red and her eyes were misty with tears.
	“Y-yes...” she said softly.
	She kept still, maintaining her obscene pose for him and as he rose from behind the desk he could see a glistening bit of fluid gathering near the top of her cunt-slit.
	“Yes, sir - Say it, ” he ordered her, unbuckling his belt and slipping it off his pants.	He needed to push further, to test her resolve.	
	“Y-yes - sir -” she replied.
	“Now...how much is it gonna cost me?”
	He stood over her and to one side, his belt dangling from his hand.
	“I - I’m not sure...uhm...wh-whatever you usually pay...”
	“You ever been whipped?”
	“Y-yes, sir.”
	“Do you like it?”
	“Yes - mm-hmm -yes sir.”
	“Good ‘cause you’re gonna be whipped right now...I wanna make sure you can handle it. Let me hear you count.”
	“Y-yes, sir.”
	He raised the wide leather belt above his head and brought it down across both her meaty asscheeks forcefully. She cried out and gasped as a shudder ran through her and her hands reached up to hold on to the top of his desk.  Her eyes fluttered for a moment then looked up at him from the arch of her legs, pupils dilated.
	“One...sir...” she half-whispered. 
	“...Good...” he muttered.
	Without hesitation he swung the belt across the back of her thighs.
	Again she gave out a breathy cry, her brows arched, eyes shut tightly in an expression of pain.
	“T-two....you can h-hit me harder...”
	“Oh really?” he asked, a contemptuous sneer on his lips.  “OK, Sheila. I’ll do that.”
	Obviously this little bitch didn’t know what she was signing up for.
	He took a step back and swung the hard belt across the young whore’s legs, just above her kneehollows.
	“Threeeee!” she cried going up on her toes, heels coming up out of her sandals, her legs tensing up, her head arching upward.
	After fifteen solid smacks he tossed the belt on a chair, stepped up to her red, welted ass, unzipped his pants and shoved his cock into her tight wet sex-slit.
He bargained her price down to almost nothing while he fucked her and after working his cock inside her for a while, he slid out of her, tucked it back in his tight jeans and put a leash on her, right over her little blue choker, to walk her out of the room and into the cavernous shadows of the warehouse.
	The naked men were already waiting there, three blacks and five white guys and as he led her into their midst they circled around her jerking off. Right on cue the two videocam operators began shooting.
	Even by the standards set by ‘Bar Sluts’ and ‘Tied Down Tight’ this video would be considered so brutal that certain distributors would not take it.
	The men were like sharks scenting blood.  The killer had told them about this girl and they knew instinctively as they saw her brought in that she was ready for anything they could dish out. Anything and everything,  and that took them to a place of sexual violence and viciousness they had never been to before.  From the beginning of the shoot as he released her to them and freed her from her leash, they instantly began to handle her roughly, pulling her about from one
man to another, slapping her, even punching her and yanking her to her knees
by her hair.  They choked her while they fucked her face, deep-throating her
with little or no regard for her discomfort, their big hands wrapped over the blue ribbon around her long slender neck.  The cameras went in for close-ups of Sheila, red-faced and choking on big cock meat, the men calling her whore, bitch,
slut, as they manhandled her and pleasured themselves with her.  It wasn’t long before they began to fuck the young orphan teen, hauling her up on a center table between two sofas of the set which was rigged up to look like somebody’s living room.  Displayed on her knees, thighs wide apart, bent over, her face pressed to the cool table-top, the welts the killer Kessler had left on her buttcheeks were plain to see as the men took turns ramming their dicks in her pussy and then in her asshole. The rose tattoo on her rump was stretched and distorted by the big hands gripping her hips hard and Sheila screamed with pain and pleasure as the  eight well-hung, athletic studs spanked her and fucked her, one at a time, the rest standing in a semi-circle waiting their turn, jerking off slowly.  As usual before a shoot the men had abstained from sexual activity for a week, so their balls were swollen full of egg-nogg-thick sperm and ready to explode for full visual impact.
	From the shadows at the edge of the well-lit set Kessler watched, taking in all the details of the savage orgy, occasionally telling the camera operators
to catch a certain action from a certain perspective, occasionally directing the studs, telling them what to do next.  The camera men were occasionally instructed to aim their instruments upward, the action captured in a large ceiling mirror which had been set up to provide an overhead perspective for the viewer.  Often the cameras too seemed participants in the orgy, long phallic lenses coming right up to Sheila’s face and mouth as she groaned and winced penetrated by a fat long black prick, her ass red from the smacking hands of the savage men.  In the editing of the film the one camera view would show Sheila’s suffering expressions and the other would show the ten inch spear of black man-meat sliding in and out of her asshole as the big strong hands slapped and mauled her buttocks.
	As the action escalated two and three men would take Sheila at the same time.  She would ride cock, sitting on on one of the men, her legs wide apart,
her feet on his thighs, gold toe-ring catching the video lights, her asshole filled with manmeat, while a second stud pushed into her cunthole making her give out sharp throaty cries and bite her lips.  Then a third guy would climb up on the table and shove his cock in her anguished face, grabbing her hair to jerk himself off in her mouth.
	In the harsh glare of the lights the human bodies gleamed with fresh sweat.
	The glitter on Sheila’s blue fingernails sparkled as her hands moved.
	The smell of rampant fucking filled the room.  VU meters pinned sharply as the cries of the female and the grunts and jeers and laughter of the men
grew louder.  
	One of the black men put his huge hands around Sheila’s throat
to choke her as she was violently double-fucked.  Her hands came up to his, as if to resist, but then slipped down again as she groaned in pleasure, then
whined, giving in, her eyes rolling back in her head, face flushed, her body shaking violently.
	“Yeahhhh!” she screamed.  “Oh Jesus - shit - yeah - tighter - tighter -
Uuhhhhh! UUHH!”
	Both cameras caught her violent orgasm, complete with close-ups of her
face, mouth drooling, cheeks almost purple as the breath was squeezed from her.
Then the men started cumming, pulling her to the ground by her hair, forcing her to kneel at their feet as they pumped up hot spattering spit-wads of cum on her face and hair and mouth, right on her wiggling tongue. They shouted, grunted, high-fived each other as they hosed her down.  Thick glops of cum rolled down her neck and down her tits and shoulders.  In a final climactic act the two black men fucked her between them, one in her asshole the other in her mouth, brutally fucked her, until they were ready then at the same time they erupted in her face yelling at her to keep her mouth open so they could shoot long streamers of cum flow into her gasping gullet.  As they released her she slumped against the sofa, sat on the floor, face covered with slimy streams of jism, one eye partially closed by a thick sperm gob and at Kessler’s instruction she smiled at the camera, made cum-bubbles and swallowed, for the closing shot.
	The men began to file out of the studio area to get their clothes in the
lockers which were down the hall in another area of the warehouse and
as the killer dismissed the camera men and payed them  Sheila got to her feet, wiping herself with a towel one of the studs had tossed her.
	She began to make her way back to Kessler’s office when he took her by her arm and told her:
	“You’re not done yet.”
	She tried to read his expressionless eyes but there was something there that 
made her look down submissively.
	“Ok,” she said softly.  She sat on the edge of the table the men had fucked her on and watched Kessler step out of the studio.
	A few moments later he returned and there were two other men with him,
middle-aged men with hard, stern faces, dressed in casual clothes.  One of them walked past Sheila and began to set up one of the cameras which the previous crew had left on the edge of the set.  The other man, who wore a white polo shirt, just looked at Sheila.  His eyes made her nervous.
	Kessler went out into the hallway again and she heard his steps receed.
	The man by the door, the one with the white shirt, continued to stare silently at her and the other one went about the business of putting tape in the camera and aiming it at her, his hand working the lense.
	Soon Kessler returned.
	“They’re gone.” he said to the others, talking to the two men in the room  as if she didn’t even exist. He had come back with three objects in his hand. He now handed one to each of the men keeping one for himself.
	Sheila realized as he pulled the object up to his face and slipped it on that it was a black leather hood with slits for the eyes.
	She watched all three men put them on. 
	This was getting weird, she thought. 
	When Kessler turned to her his voice was dull and lifeless.
	“Alright, whore. Listen up.”
	The tone of his voice sent a chill through her. His masked face frightened her.
	“We’re going to torture you and kill you.  You’re gonna star in a snuff film...and there ain’t shit you can do about it.”
	She rose to her feet, her face registering complete shock.
	The man with the white shirt had a devilish smile on his lips, made all the more grotesque by the slitted hood, and his slacks were bulging at the crotch.
	He moved toward her, pulled her arms behind her back and pushed and pulled her to the center of the studio area.  
	“Hey!” she cried out. “No way...no way I’ll do this.  You didn’t say anything about - about - owww!”
	Kessler slipped the handcuffs around her wrists while the man held her. Then as her protests became louder and more hysterical he backhanded her across the face hard, almost knocking her to the floor. 
	The man who held her then spun her around and slapped her even harder
so that she spun half way around and staggered against the sofa.
	“You getting this, Stan?” Kessler asked.
	“Shit, yeah,” the man behind the camera replied. “I’m gonna set this thing
on auto and join you before you and Bill have all the fun.”
	“You got it on wide focus, right?” Kessler said staring at the teenage girl who had slid down to sit on the cum-spattered sofa, her arms pulled back, cuffed wrists pushing into the back cushion behind her.
	“Right on the fucking mark,” Stan replied.
	Kessler went to the girl and grabbed her by her hair yanking her up on her bare feet.
	“What the fuck are you doing?” she protested.
	He walked her to a tape-mark on the floor while Bill worked a crank which was attached to a support column.  The mechanism made a loud ratcheting sound and a dangling metal chain dropped down from the ceiling.  There was a snap-hook on the end of the chain and Kessler pulled it to the cuffs which held Sheila captive. She heard a metal click as the hook was connected and Kessler made a thumbs up gesture to Bill who began to turn the crank in the opposite direction. Again, the loud, mechanical ratcheting  noise.  Sheila’s arms rose toward the ceiling forcing her to bend forward.
	“Oowwww!” she cried as the chain pulled her arms up behind her awkwardly. “You bastards! Let me go! Let me out of here!”
	Kessler noticed that the welts he’d put on her asscheeks earlier with his belt as well as the spanking marks from the gangbang had begun to fade.  It was time to put fresh new marks across that stupid rose tattoo... vicious and indelible ones.
	Stan entered the circle of light, a hooded demon. He had taken off his shirt and in his right hand he carried the first weapons that would be used on Sheila...black, single-tailed whips.  He gave each man one, kept one for himself and turned to face the blue-chokered, trussed-up orphan teen.
	“No...shit...oh shit...please...don’t...” Sheila suddenly pleaded, her bravado gone, looking up at the three masked men who now surrounded her.  She looked from one to the other, her breath coming in sharp quick gasps. “Y-you can’t do this...you...c-can’t....please...”
	Bill raised his whip up and his arm swung back.
	“We can,” he said.
	“....and we will,” Stan finished.
	Almost in unison the three men swung their weapons.
	It wasn’t until the leather tails flew out toward her that Sheila noticed the sharp metal studs on the tips.
	Her first scream was shrill and full of energy, it was a lovely unrepressed sound and almost before it was over the whips were already swinging down on her again.

3. The Past
(Wednesday, 10:45 PM)

	The killer, Kessler, tastes the expectation of pleasure, contemplates it, turns it over and over in his mind, what he will do with you, how he will do it and for how long.
	You taste fear, alone in the darkness under the cloth hood, trapped by the cuffs and chains that rattle against the metal underside of the Caravan’s seats, huddled and bent like a twisted doll, your body lurching with each turn and each bump, inertly, meat on the way to the slaughterhouse.
	Already Kessler is erect for you.  The innocently fresh scent of your perfume blends with the sharp musk of your terror sweat, hot moisture trickling down into your eyes in the hot claustrophobic hood...and he smells you, scents you, like a stalking cat raising his snout over tall prairie grass, catching the whiff of nearby gazelles.
	He is eager to begin with you, eager to get his hands on you and use you as only he knows how to use a female body, but he drives without speeding and patiently.  There is no need to draw unwanted attention on the road.
	He does not speak - there is no need for it - and there is only the constant drone of the Caravan’s engine and the motion of the vehicle and the asphalt hissing by.
	This terrible night has been planned for weeks without your knowledge, carefully planned, though some room has been allowed for improvisation.  Above all, the killer hopes for your endurance.  He hopes that, over the next few days, you will take long hours of intense punishment and suffering from which he and those who will share in your destruction.will draw numerous and pleasurable orgasms, not to mention an outrageous financial profit.
	He knows you are a strong female, healthy, at the peak of your prime really, even after bearing two children, still slender and feminine, delicious and desirable.  He licks his lips as he drives, his sneering face caught in the pale streaks of passing headlights and street lamps, his eyes hard, strong jaw clenched, an almost angry look on him, a severe look that tolerates no pity, that is relentless and willful, savage, lawless and primal.
	You test the chains that hold you, trying to stretch your cramped limbs, to escape the unyielding and uncomfortable grip, but it is laughably pointless.  He has bound you, trapped you, expertly.  He has bagged you, just as if you were
a small defenseless animal, and there is nothing for you to do but to lie there squirming, tossed senselessly back and forth with the motion of the van, soundless in your hooded terror.
	And though you try not to allow it, your mind is inescapably drawn to the memory of that night years before when you were just a young vulnerable girl on a lonely stretch of Virginia road.  You try not to think about that night, and how this night may bear some deep affinity to it, but it is impossible and your lips quiver as you sob softly.
	Kessler hears you crying and it makes him harder.  Though he does not know the deeper source of your anguish it nevertheless pleases him and he takes one hand from the steering wheel to press the heel of the palm against the erection tugging at the fabric of his pants.  The pressure of his strong hand on the hot hardness makes him smile.  And though you do not see his smile, not the smile of this killer, you hear his breath quicken and in your mind you see the men in the pickup truck that night long ago.  
	There were smiles on their faces too.  Hungry, leering, smiles.
	It was you and Larissa Wilson walking that stretch of Camille Road on the grassy shoulder, Larissa, green-eyed with hair the color of fox pelt, thick, spilling down her bare shoulders and back ending just above the small tattoo of a teddy bear.
	It is summer and she looks almost sluttish in a pair of tight jean shorts and a blue halter top, daring even for 1984, her tattoo more provocative then, not yet faddishly common. You’re not exactly prudish that night either in a bright pink mini-dress and high-heeled mules that make your balance precarious on the soft ground as you walk.  Larissa wears big hoop earrings, knee-high cowboy boots, expensive leather with a bright red trim design and she fares better on the grassy road- shoulder. Your car, the clunky, one-eyed ‘75 Pacer hatchback is back up the road, its engine dead and useless. 
	Laughing and still tipsy both of you have decided to walk the five miles back to town from the Headless Horseman, that place outside of town young girls have been told to stay away from.  Explicitly, repeatedly and in no uncertain terms both Larissa’s parents and yours have warned you to stay well away...so how could you resist?  How could you not be attracted, for is it not in the nature of the young female to search out danger, to challenge predictability, to see what is on the other side of the tracks?  And isn’t it in the nature of those who are afraid of risk to later say: ‘She had it coming. The little tramp went looking for it and she got just what she bargained for.’ Doesn’t it make them feel smug to think themselves knowledgeable about the wickedness in the world? And yet who knows such wickedness really if they have not witnessed it or felt its demanding sweetness between their thighs? And how is it possible to escape its seduction once it has tainted you?
	That careless summer night in 1984 drew Julie and Larissa, eager for experience, to the odd white concrete structure in the sudden clearing, the monotony of woodlands broken up by tinted windows buzzing with neon beer signs.  
	And if the banged-up Pacer hadn’t died you would have got away with it.  The leering eyes and steamy looks, the veiled, and as the night went on, more brazen invitations and come-ons, would have been remembered only in brightly lit restaurants years later over coffee and pictures of the kids. ‘Weren’t we stupid?’ you would have commented. ‘Weren’t we crazy to go there?’  The whole incident would have simply become something to giggle about in the safety of clattering silverware and tinkling glasses.
	But that was not to be.
	That careless summer night at the Headless Horseman you and Larissa wordlessly teased the men at the pool tables and at the bar, the green-eyed bearded guy who looked like a 60’s biker, the other with the half-lidded eyes and scraggly hair and the very tall, handsome, dark-haired college boy with the plaid shirt and bermuda shorts. Other eyes devoured you that night, devoured the young bare-legged sweet girls who smiled with the headiness of seduction.  But those particular three would follow you out into the night and come upon you on the road.
	“Hey, girls,” the green-eyed biker called, leaning out of the beat-up GMC truck’s window as it rolled up beside you on the grass.
	“Saw your wheels back there...thought you might be wanting a ride.”
	You saw the dark need in their eyes then, saw it and felt that sudden warmth between your legs,  that nervous flutter in your belly.
	Larissa giggled.
	“My momma told me not to accept rides from strangers,” she retorted coquettishly.
	The blackberry wine she’d been drinking (as opposed to your Michelobs)  had made her eyes look stupidly sleepy and she could not stand still without tottering slightly from side to side. At that moment you knew what she looked like,  you knew what you both looked like...a couple of sleazy drunken tramps looking to get porked.  	
	Porked.  That was the word you’d heard the boys use. Porked. Like a farm animal.
	Suddenly you felt very sober.
	“That’s ok,” you said nervously. “Thank you, but we’ll walk...it’s not that far really.”
	Then Larissa took two dizzy steps toward the truck.
	“Oh, come on, Julie!” she whined. “Don’t be such a fucking prude!”
	The men in the truck laughed.
	“Yeah, Julie,” college-boy called. “Come on. Let’s party.”
	His voice was flat, emotion-less. There was something scary in his eyes.
	“Come on, girl,” the scraggly one added. “You can both ride in the back.
We’ll take you back to town.”
	You froze between two choices then, Julie.
	For a moment, as you watched Larissa climb into the back of the Jimmy, her boots clattering on the metal cargo bay you actually considered going, climbing in there with her...but some remnant of sanity and self-preservation prevailed and held you in check, an unseen instinct, the smell of danger maybe.
	Then all of them were urging you on, the three strangers and Larissa, all telling you what an idiot, what a party-pooping prude, you were for not getting in the truck.  But you held your ground and the decisive moment passed when, unexpectedly, another car streaked by heading in the opposite direction.
	...And the next thing you remember is Larissa in the cargo bay of the pickup truck as it pulls away into the night. She is trying to get to her feet but
she staggers back to land on her butt, sitting on a large wooden crate cursing.
	Your mind is drawn there now as the killer drives in silence and you lie in chains, sobbing almost inaudibly, finally captured, finally facing what you were meant to face that summer night on Camille road so long ago.
	Six days after that night at the Headless Horseman, a farmer named Hank Weston found Larissa’s naked dead body, stiff and swollen purple, clothes and boots gone.  He found her tied by wrists and ankles to a chain-link fence five hundred yards off a dirt road next to his property in a desolate rural area outside a small town on the other side of the state line.   Three weeks later, after an identification was made of her ravaged, partially decomposed body based on dental records, you finally learned of her fate.  You’d told no one about the night at the Headless Horseman and until the police came by to ask questions you had kept the secret well. But when the two detectives sat across from you on the living room couch in their crisp dark suits and sharp business ties, their eyes probing your every word, your mom and dad standing in the kitchen doorway, your story about being alone that night, out for a ride when the Pacer went dead, just wouldn’t wash.  And so you finally bore witness? Didn’t you, Julie?  You bore witness to the stupid choices you and Larissa had made that night.  And though you expected, and perhaps even desired, anger from your parents you got only silence, a terrible silence which made you wither inside.
	And later Larissa’s mother would hold stare at you with a similar contemptuous silence from a distance in the courtroom during the trial.  ‘Why?’ her glance seemed to say. ‘Why did my daughter die while someone as worthless as you still lives? Why did you let her go to her death?’
	How could you explain that moment of choice, that moment when you teetered on the edge before that unknown car passed by in a blur, dividing your fate from Larissa’s, the pickup truck suddenly driving off as she cursed at you then disappeared down the road into darkness?  How could you explain how afterwards you convinced yourself, as the truck’s tail-lights faded that you were
just a prude after all, that Larissa was going to be fine? And how, as the days passed into weeks, how, after her mother’s frantic phone calls, before Larissa  was finally confirmed to be the girl found tied to a fence beaten and viciously butchered, could you keep your silence?  She’s run away with those guys, you thought.  But she’ll be back.  She’ll be in a lot of trouble but she’ll tell me what it was like when we are alone...what it was like to be with three guys.
	Stupid girl.
	They did more than be with her, didn’t they, Julie?
	The truth is they had a goddamn field day with her. They used Larissa for all a young female body could be used for to please their brutal manly needs.
	Because of your testimony, and because of other unforseen events, the three suspects were finally tracked down, arrested and brought to trial.  You sealed their fate, especially after the tall dark-eyed college boy agreed to a plea-bargain arrangement and confessed.  And you listened to the forensic evidence and the college boy’s eerie flat-toned confession as he responded to the D.A.’s questions.  And so you were able to piece the event together, or at least most of it.
	The details you would discover later, on your own initiative.
	A few miles down Camille road, as you would find out, after it was obvious the men weren’t taking Larissa into town, she started yelling and banging on the pickup’s cabin.  So they pulled over.  She tried to run away but she was too drunk and she stumbled into the run-off ditch at the side of the road.  They hauled her up out of there, her hands and knees streaked with mud, and they tied her up with ropes, gagged her and stuck her inside the wooden crate she’d been sitting on in the back of their truck.
	D.A. STILLMAN: Whose decision was it to put Larissa in the freight box?
	The college boy, Phillip Riemann, looked down at the microphone anchored on the top edge of the witness box.
	RIEMANN: Billy thought of it.
	D.A. STILLMAN: When you say Billy you are referring to - uh - William D. Hutch, is that correct, Mr. Riemann?
	RIEMANN: Yes, sir, that is correct.
	The green eyed biker-Viking stared straight ahead impassively.  Next to him at the defense table, the third man, now anything but scraggly, wearing a blue Sunday-church suit and wine-red tie, looked down at his hands.
	D.A. STILLMAN: And then, as you stated in your confession, William Hutch, Tom Parks and yourself drove the victim, uh, fifty-some miles to Andrea County in West Virginia.
	RIEMANN: Yes.
	D.A.STILLMAN: And did you talk about what you were going to do with her?
	RIEMANN: Yes. We were going to have sex with her and then let her go.
	D.A.STILLMAN: I see. You were going to let her go... Did it occur to you, that is, did it pass through your mind or the minds of the other defendants, that she would probably go to the police and accuse you and your companions of kidnapping and rape?
	The defense attorney called for an objection on that last question.  In fact he called several objections in the next twenty six minutes.  But repeatedly the judge over-ruled.  And as your heart pounded you heard the first account of what they did to her. Much would be left out. Some more would be provided by the county coroner. The rest you would find out on your own.
	For many nights you would not be able to sleep as you saw the event in your mind over and over, trapped in that special female place between horror and fascination, your pillow soaked as tears streamed down your cheeks and you stifled your sobs in its warm wet folds.  And the wicked warmth would come, unbidden, that wet throbbing as wet as your tears.  You stifled that too, stifled it
just like your sobs until you could no longer feel, until you were numb.  And then sleep would come.  Over and over, night after night, the same cycles of guilt, terror, sorrow and desire, and finally muted silence, would play themselves out inside you.
	You could see it all so clearly:
	...They drive up the dirt road, laughing, passing the beer can from one to the other, Hutch driving one-handed, his Viking face evil in the dashboard glow, the dust swirling all around the headlights as they pull to a stop.  Hutch puts the truck into park but leaves the engine running.  All around them there is the sound of the crickets, the rustle of the trees and the low grumbling of the idling truck.
	They stumble out of the redneck vehicle cackling and haul Larissa up out of the wooden crate.  Hutch has a knife.  He cuts her ropes free and she staggers to her feet ripping the rag they’ve gagged her with out of her mouth as she steps down out of the cargo bay.  She is really pissed, furious. You knew she had a fiery temper that rarely showed itself but which would not be contained once it was released. One hoop earring is gone.  She screeches at them like a mindless harpie, tells them they will be locked up and the key thrown away.  They are amused and a bit surprised by her outburst - all that energy in such a small petite package.  	
	They study her.
	Then she staggers backward against the side of the truck as they close in.
	“Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch!” Parks says and smacks her across the face.
	College-boy Riemann grabs her by her lovely red hair and punches her in the stomach. His preppy looks camouflage the strength in him.
	Winded she bends forward, almost falling.  Parks reaches out and yanks off her halter top.
	Larissa’s big bouncy tits waggle free as she gasps with the shock of being suddenly stripped naked in front of the rowdy strangers.
	“Yeahh...” Riemann jeers.
	Breathless, her anger fading, Larissa stumbles back against the truck and tries to cover herself with her arms.
	For a moment the men just stare at her. Then they laugh.
	Riemann begins to peel off his plaid shirt.
	“We’re gonna fuck you, slut,” Parks grunts.
	“No...” Larissa pleads weakly.  Her lips from a pretty circle on the ‘o’.
	“No...no...please...”
	Her anger is totally defused now, replaced with fear.
	The men strip naked, virile, youthful bodies charged up with sexual agression as their clothes fall away.
	She can’t see their faces in the dark.
	“No, no, pleease!” Parks mimics.
	They are silouhettes surrounding her.
	“Fuck you...and fuck - you - up -” Hutch says softly.
	“...oh yeah...” Riemann adds as they close in again. “We’re gonna fuck you up bad you stupid bitch.”
	She tries to run past them but they seize her.
	She screams then.
	One of them grabs her by her hair and swings her around.
	They begin to punch and slap her, to call her names, their cocks hard from handling her.
	She falls to the dirt. They bend over her punching.  Parks still has his dirty track shoes on and he kicks her hard, kicks her in the ribs, the dirt flying in clouds, filling her mouth and eyes as she cries out.  She twists and bends and is
beaten and kicked.  Her hair rakes the dirt which sticks to her sweaty teary face in smudges.  They rip off her shorts and panties and pull off her stylish mud-caked boots.
	Hutch reaches down and grabs the hoop earing to pull on it.
	She tries to crawl away, whining, held by her ear until the earring rips out of her lobe.
	Laughing, they pull her back into their circle by one bare ankle.
	She’s hauled up on her feet by her hair and yanked out in front of the truck’s headlights.
	Her captors want to see her in the bright glare. They need to see clearly.
	She is blinded by it.
	Blood trickles from her lip and down her neck from her ear lobe trickling back over the blue teddy bear tattoo on her white shoulder.
	Hutch noticing the tattoo for the first time strokes himself and jeers at her:
	“Awww....you gonna be our teddy bear? Huh? Hmmm?”	
	Whimpering and shivering she stands in the wash of light, her eyes darting from one naked agressor to the other, her dirt-streaked hair tumbling over her face.
	Hutch steps up to her, still jerking off.  The other two are also jerking off, their hands moving with slow menacing rhythm, pumping themselves up.
	“Kiss me,” Hutch growls softly reaching out to raise her lightly freckled face up by the chin with his free hand.
	He smiles and his eyes are glimmering slits.  He smells of beer and engine oil and piss, his fingernails dirty with grease.
	Her head tilts, brows arched, lips sagging downward, a poetic image of
suffering femininity that triggers every sadistic instinct in her captors.
	“...please...” she mutters.
	His hand takes her firmly by the throat.
	“I said: KISS me, pig!” he tells her again, no longer smiling, his eyes now fierce.
	“Come on...you can do it...”
	She takes a weak unwilling step toward him.
	Her sides ache from being kicked and large bruises are already forming on her arms chest and face.
	“That’s right,” he whispers as she leans forward.
	She kisses him lightly, his hard prick, its tip already moist, brushing her belly, making her want to pull away.
	He holds her by the throat.
	“Come on, now, teddy bear...You can do better than that.”
	“Yeah, slut,” Riemann jeers. “You know it’s what you fuckin’ want.”
	“Yeah,” Parks adds, hawking and spitting, his face hateful as he works himself to a bursting erection, his arm muscles flexing. “You and your prick-teasin’ girlfriend...fuckin’ cunts...Comin’ in there tonight and gettin’ us all riled up. You don’t fucking know who you’re playin’ with.”
	“Come on, bitch,” Hutch commands, looking into her frightened eyes.
	She can’t look away, can she Julie?
	You know if your roles had been reversed, if it had been you instead of her, you couldn’t have looked away either, could you?
	Something inside was already giving, surrendering, accepting.
	She steps forward again, this time less uncertainly, and cups her lips around Hutch’s, his Viking beard scratching her face, his hard man-meat prodding against her belly.  He stops jerking off and she feels his other hand on her bare hip, holding her, one hand on her throat, the other on her hip, holding her as his lips now open and his hot tongue snakes into her mouth.  He tastes of stale Budweiser and stale marijuana and she is suddenly dizzy and weak.  His companions cheer him on as he smears his mouth on hers, licks her face, bites her neck, then laughing he pushes her violently back into their arms.  They each have a go at the teenager, kissing her obscenely, jeering, squeezing her solid tit-meat, pinching her swollen hard nipples.  She is shoved from one to the other, Mrs.Wilson’s sweet daughter, passed around like the beer bottle they were drinking in the truck, all three of them using their wet hungry mouths and sharp teeth, their hard cocks pushing against her. And she does not struggle. There is no longer any resistance.
	“Nice,” Parks grunts.
	“Told you she was a frickin’ whore,” Hutch snarls pushing her down on her knees in the dirt in front of the truck. “Told you she wouldn’t fight us.”
	She looks up at her captors, lost, confused, still dizzy from the wine.
	Riemann steps up close to rub his cock in her face.
	“This is what you want, isn’t it? Huh? ...yeah....yeah....This is it here, slut.
C’mon. Get your mouth on it. Swallow that cock down, bitch.”
	The glare of the old truck’s beams is in her eyes and she opens her mouth wide to take all of him.  The three of them look down on her.  She is tugged from one to the other. All of them have big cocks, big and hard, Hutch’s fatter, thicker; Parks’ smelling rank, college-boy Riemann’s longer and sleeker. They grab and yank and pull on her thick red hair and fuck her pretty face, their sexual energy escalating, gradually more and more frenzied. Her lip bleeds on their cocks.They start slapping Mr. Wilson’s little girl, spitting on her...they make her open her mouth to spit in it...they make her deep-throat them, their cocks going gagging-deep in her gullet until her eyes go wide and her face is flushed red... ‘Choke on it, cunt!’ ‘YE-ah! CHOKE ON IT!’ ‘Put your hands behind you...BEHIND YOU...’ ‘Damn - her throat is like a tight pussy!’
	 More aggressive now they punch Larissa in the face, send her falling, drag her back up on her knees, blood trickling from her broken nose.  They call her ugly names, beat her, slam their cocks in her mouth...she is sobbing but she does not try to move away from them any more as they get her on her feet, turn and lean her against the front grill of the truck, her face pressed against the hot metal of the hood, the engine idling, growling like the men, as they take turns fucking her from behind.  While one of them fucks her, the other two pass the beer around.  She hears them popping the cans open and laughing, her face pressed against the GMC logo on the truck, her hands clutching the dirt and dead-insect shells smeared on the grill, her legs wide apart, feet arched as she goes up on her toes. A trickle of blood and pussy fluid runs down the inside of her thighs.
	This will be how Larissa loses her virginity.
	Now, in your dark hooded captivity, Julie, you ride toward your own terrible fate, and you wonder what was on Larissa’s mind in those last hours.
She was always the brave one, the daring one, the one who took risks.  It had been her idea to go to the Headless Horseman that night.  Now you wonder, what was it like as the three of them plowed into her.  Did she give herself to them, finally defeated, finally knowing that the night could end in only one way? Did she resign herself to her fate as all powerless and broken women eventually do, taking what is given to them, yielding to the fierce masculine onslaught? What you do know is that they fucked her viciously, wantonly, in every way a girl can be fucked.  You know every last detail of her destruction, Julie, because you heard about it first-hand, literally and figuratively - first hand - after the trial and convictions, when you went up to the maximum security facility out near Richmont, to Harris State penitentiary, to hear it right from the source.
	They took her on the ground, on the metal cargo bay of the truck, in the dry grass, on the hood of the vehicle, on the seat, hung on the truck door, up against a tree.  They fucked her up the ass and in her cunt, double-fucked her while the third male grabbed her head and throat-fucked her.  They fucked her and beat her and pounded into her.  Then they hung her up by her wrists from the branch of an oak on the edge of the woods, dead leaves and dirt sticking to her bare feet as she was raised up off the ground, the leather cord tearing into her delicate wrist-bones through the skin.  Her legs were pulled wide apart, ankles secured to trees on either side of her, roped as tight as the wrists.
	And they took up hard rubber straps, black strips used to secure objects to the truck’s bay, thick brutal truncheon-straps, and began to whip the lovely naked teenage girl.  They whipped Mr. and Mrs. Wilson’s pretty little girl mercilessly, didn’t they Julie? With heartless sadism as though she was nothing but a piece of meat.  And that is all she was to them in the end. Just meat. Sweet, screaming, girl-child meat.  The rubber straps had metal hooks on each end which ripped at the her pale freckled skin, tore the teddy bear tattoo on her shoulder in half, as she kicked and wailed and gasped for air, the morning sun beginning to light the red sky.
	They then lowered her to the ground and fucked her beaten, blood-streaked body again, driven to new levels of man-lust by the feel of her torn bleeding welts as they grabbed her ass-cheeks or squeezed blood from her slashed nipples.
	They shot off on her, hot jets of cum, in her asshole and cunthole and in her choking mouth and flushed face.  They dragged her up to sit against the tree-trunk and pissed all over her, no longer talking or laughing or jeering, but grunting with savage pleasure.
	She thought they had finished with her then as the sun rose and morning came but then she watched Hutch shut off the lights and the engine of the truck.  She suspected then, didn’t she, Julie? Suspected her life was about to end in this terrible but beautiful place, birds singing, trees swaying to an early dawn breeze.
	They tied her in a different way now, handling her with cold hostility.
	Hutch tied three coils of rope around her neck making a quick double-strand noose.  One end was tossed over the same high branch she had hung from by her wrists. He pulled on the other end hard yanking Larissa up on her feet.  Parks tied her wrists behind her then pulled her arms together until the elbows touched.
	“Nice...” he said to the others as if she wasn’t even there and he cinched her arms together with one of the black rubber straps they’d used to beat her.
	“This bitch can bend...”
	“Not like that cunt in Ashford,” Riemann quipped.
	The men chuckled, but their faces remained death-masks of cruelty.
	“Yeah, I had to break that bitch,” Parks noted.
	“...and you loved it...” Hutch joked.
	“Every minute of it,” Parks shot back. “I think we should break this one’s legs...they’re real nice...” His hands moved down her body to squeeze Larissa’s welted thighs.
	“Sounds like a great idea,” Riemann said watching Parks hands working
the soft pliant flesh as he slowly jerked off again.
	Larissa started to speak.
	Hutch yanked on the rope making her choke audibly as she went up on her toes.  The hapless teenager began to squirm and make strangled noises, spit running down her chin, her cheeks beet-red.
	“You got nothing to say, pig,” Hutch snarled at her.
	“Gag ‘er,” he ordered. “Bitch is making too much racket. It’s morning. Somebody might be around.”
	One of them tore a strip of cloth from her discarded halter top,  shoved it in her mouth and tied a stretch of rope over it and around her head.  Then her
slim ankles were bound tightly together and she was pulled upward, heaven-bound, so that just her tippy-toes touched the moist forest ground. 
	She choked and twisted and tried to beg them to stop, her flesh on fire from the savage beatings, one eye swollen almost shut, her face bruised and cut.  As her eyes went from one agressor to the other in a fruitless search for pity, her words impossible to understand, muffled and distorted by the cloth gag, the men began to jerk off again, smiling.  Slowly and steadily Hutch pulled on the rope until she came up off the ground, her head slightly angled to one side, slender neck stretched.  She began to spin slowly and as she looked down on her killers, black spots bubbling in her eyes, her vocalisations weaker, she saw Riemann raise the metal pipe...
	“See if you can do both of her knees with one shot,” Parks said from behind her.
	She saw the metal bar swing down, heard the impact then felt the terrible pain shooting up both legs as her knees shattered.
	Her mouth went wide around the cloth-rope gag and her eyes rolled back in her head as the men cheered.
	Riemann swung again and the metal bar crashed down on her bound feet smashing the fragile bones just below the ankles to pieces.
	Another cheer.
	She passed out from the pain.
	When she awoke she was on the ground being dragged by her long red hair along the carpet of wet dead leaves.  Her wrists and elbows, still tied together under her, dragged along and were torn by rocks and twigs.  She was still gagged and her neck was still roped tight and her broken legs were swollen, bleeding, and throbbing horribly as they trailed on the ground.  She could barely breathe.
	After breaking her legs, Riemann had delivered a couple of cruel blows to the unconscious teenager’s chest breaking her rib-cage and now each breath was a
fiery labor of pain.  Above her she could see the blue sky through the canopy of trees, the shadow of their shrubbery caressing her pale white, bruise- and welt-
mottled skin as she was hauled, Hutch’s fist tugging her hair, almost pulling it out of her skull, to her final resting place.
	They came to the fence.
	Between all three of them the killers lifted the broken teenage girl, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson’s pride and joy, young straight-A student, state scholarship winner and 
swim-team captain, Larissa Wilson on to the dirty, rusty chain-link fence and crucified her to it with taut, unyielding ropes, arms wide apart, wrists trapped.  They secured her there by her neck and by her head, tight rope looped over her forehead and braided through the thatched wire.  After untying her broken swollen ankles they lifted her slender white shattered limbs up on either side of her, up and back until both broken feet pointed at the sky above where white puffy clouds sailed by on a perfect blue backdrop, and she groaned in mortal torment, spittle, then as she choked, bits of vomit and bile, oozing from her gagged mouth as they secured her roped ankles.
	They returned down the path through the trees to the truck as she squirmed and choked against the fence rattling the wire mesh with her helpless and 
awkward convulsions.
	Would they leave her now? Had they had enough?
  	There is still a fading hope in her mind that someone will be around, that someone will hear and come to her rescue....but there is only the gentle calm rustle of the trees.
	Her heart sinks as she sees them return.
	They each have knives, sharp-bladed hunting weapons.
	Riemann also carries the terrible metal pipe he has already used on her.
	Their faces are grim.
	This will be the end.
	Each male steps up to the tortured, helplessly bound, obscenely offered body of the teenage girl.  Wide open and positioned perfectly for penetration she is crudely and repeatedly fucked in her lovely pink, almost hair-less pussy and in her tight bleeding asshole.   The agressors literally fuck the shit out of their redheaded victim, faeces and blood spilling from her as they slam heartlessly deep.  And as they take turns with her, blood-lust escalating, they begin to use their knives.  At first they cut her, slice lines of blood on her pretty white cinammon-speckled skin, but soon they are stabbing... stabbing with their knives and stabbing with ther cocks.  Soon blood is spilling from the gagged, sobbing, choking teen.  Parks cuts and stabs her tits, Hutch her thighs, Riemann attacks her randomly...The men growl like beasts of prey, their knives thud into helpless girlmeat.  While one fucks the other two stab her and masturbate themselves with sharp decisive motions.  Blood pours from Larissa’s mouth, her movements gradually less energetic, life draining from her, fingers twitching, hands balling up into fists then opening wide. She is letting go of life.
	“Gh-ghuwwhh!” she grunts as Hutch buries his knife blade deep in her
belly.  The blade cuts her stomach open inside.  Hutch grabs her by her hair and empties himself in her spasming, shit-drooling asshole.
	As he steps back from her, Parks takes over.
	His knife slams into her chest between both her bloody gouged boobs.
	“Y-Ygghhhh!” she cries, her eyes going wide, blood pulsing from her flaring nostrils.
	Parks smiles with deep gloating sadistic pleasure as he drags his knife downward toward her sliced up belly, toward the knife Hutch has left in her, ripping, opening Larissa Wilson up like a gutted doe.
	Her pussy clenches tightly around his prick and his hips thrust back and forth quicker and quicker.
	“Yeahh, s-cum-bag!” he snarls and his swollen balls contract as he shoots his hot jissom into the suffering, dying girl’s vagina, planting life where it will
never bloom. “Uuhhhhh! Shitt - fuckin’ piece of shit whore -”
	Now it is Riemann’s turn, tall, thin, college-boy Phil Riemann who sat across from you, Julie, in the visitor’s room at the state penitentiary, telling you each detail, looking into your eyes, his hand moving under the table, invisible to 
the guard behind you, his strong fingers between your soft open thighs as he
spoke, buried inside your wetness. Back then he hadn’t pumped up his muscles yet or had colorful tattoes painted on his body. But he was still frightening.  Something in his eyes, which were black as charcoal, wasn’t right. Not right at all.
	...Hutch and Parks watch, sperm still dribbling from their spent cocks as they lean against the fence on either side of the mortally wounded female.
	With his blade, college-boy Riemann, the unspoken intellectual leader of the three, stabs hard into Larissa’s pussy hole then cuts a gash in his gagged, screaming victim downward to her rectum.  Instead of two openings he now has one bleeding gash.  With a shout he plunges his prick deep into this exquisite wound. Now he’s up to his fat balls in Larissa’s moist yielding innards.  He deep-stabs her thighs and calves until her blood is spurting and streaming out of her, splashing his strong legs and trickling down to his feet anchored in the soft carpet of dead leaves in front of the fence.  Then, leaving his hunting knife hilted in her thigh, he steps back and pulls out of her.
	He picks up the metal pipe from the ground, Julie...
	...He was telling you how it felt, cold and heavy.  
	His fingers were working slowly under the edges of your panties as he told you about Larissa’s killing and you were frozen there at that bare prison table, pinned to the moment you had brought upon yourself, much as Larissa was pinned to that fence, also in the end responsible for her terrible fate, the female need to tempt and tease and seduce finally and most tragically fulfilled....for both of you.
	Do you see it, Julie? Can you understand it now as you ride in the
Dodge caravan, bound and helpless? Can you grasp how destructive and how rampant male agression can be and how it can so viciously erupt?  Do you now clearly see what women are made for and what your end must inevitably be?
You thought you understood after that day at the penitentiary with Phil Riemann. 	But true understanding lay many years in the future. True understanding was still some time away.
	Phillip Reimann, the one who would plea-bargain down to a thirty year stretch he would never serve, the one who would betray his two murderous companions with false testimony, had carefully placed the end of the steel pipe on Larissa Wilson’s gashed cunt.  He would not testify to that in court. You would be the only one to hear his highly detailed admission, whispered, like a confession in church, so that the guard behind you would not hear. You would already know something about it from the coroner’s report but the culpability for the final coup-de-grace performed upon Larissa was never really established at the trial. Only the anatomical details. You would hear how four feet of cold hard steel had been brutally pushed up your friend’s sex, tearing through uterus, cervix, bowels and liver, slowly killing her as her captors watched in orgiastic rapture, the pipe
ripping out through her kidney and out her back through a gap in the chain-link fence while gagged Larissa howled dementedly at the dainty clouds above.
	And as she died, hanging on the fence, her eyes rolling back to see
that picture-book sky Riemann finally shot his sick load on her horribly penetrated abdomen spitting his final hateful words on her: “Die, you filthy
stinking, pig-whore.”
	Those would be the last words Mrs.Wilson’s lovely, red-headed, teenage daughter would ever hear on this earth as she quivered and choked and tasted
the rusty bitterness of her own blood...those words and his final act, her final vision, as he leaned forward to spit in her dying face before she expired.
	“I killed her, Julie,” Riemann whispered. “I mean - I guess all three of us killed her - but I finished the job.”  His fingers stroked your swollen clit as you sat on the edge of  the hard wooden chair, legs wide apart, the guard unaware of the obscenity that was taking place...Right there in the high security prison your friend’s murderer, whom you’d obtained secret permission to talk to, had devastatingly reduced you to your deepest most female need.  Your feet quivered, arched against the chair legs, your heels lifting from the confining sandals as the orgasm steamed through you, flushing your cheeks red and making you dizzy, your hands clinging to the edges of the table, long nails scratching the old wood as Riemann had stared right into your eyes and single-handedly masturbated you to a climax you tried with all your might to repress, stroking you with his words as well, his deep slow heartless voice recounting step by step the destruction of Larissa. And when he’d come to that whispered admission, like a snake’s hiss, ‘I killed her, Julie’, you knew that the hand stroking you was the one which had driven the steel spear home and you could not hold back any more shivering, biting your lower lip to keep from crying out and alerting the guard as you came, helpless, weak, violated.  Then his hand had slithered away and he had just looked at you with contempt.
	“I would’ve pulled that pipe out of ‘er and fucked her dead body...I was ready to...all three of us would have. And then we would have cut ‘er down off that fence and buried her and no one would have ever found out shit.”
	“S-so - wh-what happened?” you asked him softly, your voice shaky, a single tear running down your cheek. “Why did you leave her - like that -?”
	“Farmer Weston happened,” he sneered. “We heard the engine of his fucking tractor and hauled ass. Too bad because it seems we woulda had time. I mean he didn’t find her until a week later. It would have been nice to have ‘er afterwards...dead like that...I know I would have enjoyed it....Know what I mean, Julie?”
	His hand had moved to his crotch and he was holding himself as your eyes
slid down to the floor and you blushed with shame.
	“Yeahh,” he whispered, his voice low and nasty. “You know just what I’m talking about.”
	He sat there for a few moments and just stared at your downcast head.
	Then he rose slowly to his feet, standing over you.
	“We’re finished,” he said to the guard and turned to walk back to the gate.
	It took you a few more minutes to recover your composure.
	Later as you drove home you would have to pull over and rush from the car to vomit at the side of the road.  
	Looking down you saw the moist stain of your cum had begun to spread
and thin out on the fabric of your short blue skirt.  You had worn a pretty outfit for your friend’s murderer.  A white dressy blouse, a knee-lenghth skirt and the flat black sandals.  Now the stain betrayed you made you feel sick and disgusted with yourself.  No one would ever know about your visit to the prison but the memory would haunt you forever.
	...right to the moment in the Dodge Caravan and the night of your capture as you cried unseen in the dark cover under the black silk hood and Kessler drove on into the empty darkness, further and further from Seabrook and the life you’d known with a husband and children, the life you would now never return to.

4. Sheila Departs

	The first kill, every man-killer knows, is always the sweetest.
	Two years before Julie Winnfried’s ride in the van the first kill at the warehouse had been Sheila, the one who came to them from an Internet contact, the one who would star in their first snuff flick.
	For Kirkwood and Robeson she would be the first of many.
	Not for Kessler. His first had been a twelve year old Vietnamese girl, years before, in 1971.  He had torn her to shreds with an AK-47 after raping her savagely in the jungle near her village, just beyond a stretch of rice-paddies. The pleasure of killing a female had been so intense that from that moment on Kessler would be addicted to it.  Not long after that incident he and three other soldiers engaged in a gruesome orgy of death slaughtering fifteen young women and hanging their murdered, mutilated bodies up on trees when they were finished.
	His exploits had gone undiscovered and he had left the Marines in ‘75 discharged with honors, smiling for the cameras when the medals were pinned on him.  Shortly afterwards his father had passed away and the house by the sea,
the house with the private underground chambers, had become his.  
	At the warehouse on highway 251, two years before Julie’s capture, Stan Robeson, wearing a black hood that covered half of his face, draped over his eyes, looked down through slitted openings on Sheila’s crying face as she struggled to take the whole length of his big hard cock down her throat.  
	He had a nice firm grip on her blonde head and in his other hand he had a wooden cane with three steel spikes nailed on the end. He’d already struck the whipped, kneeling girl a couple of times on her pretty tits with the weapon and her blood dripped from her wounds, off the tips of her swollen nipples, as well as from the spiked rod to the floor - red spatters... Thick, warm, red spatters.
	Bill Kirkwood stood behind Sheila, also hooded, strong legs wide apart, his cock cleaving the air, delivering hard vicious swats across her back and shoulders with a multi-tongued flogger. The tips of the flogger were bits of barbed wire which tore into the already welted, striped and bruised girlflesh.
	The rope they’d hung her from by the neck which wound in a tight coil just above the blue choker, just beneath her jaw, was still connected to the overhead pulley, keeping her upright, but her wrists had be re-tied to her thighs and she’d been pushed down to kneel so that she could serve her leather-hooded 
captors with her mouth while she was viciously punished.
	Mike Kessler had lifted the video-cam from its static tripod where it had
been left to capture the savage single-tailing of the young victim and he now
took close-ups of the gang-banged slut’s face as she deep-throated Stan.
	Her eyes were bloodshot and spilling tears.Gray mascara lines ran down her face as she whinnied and squirmed to the fierce flogging Kirkwood was delivering across her back and upper buttocks.  And every time Stan wacked
her tits with the spiked-cane her cries went shrill.
	“Yeah!” Kessler exclaimed.  “Give it to ‘er!”
	“Suck me, bitch!” Stan growled.
	She would lean obediently forward to suck him for a few moments, her head bobbing back and forth, her red lips stretched, her teary eyes looking up at her hooded tormentor, her body swaying to the implacable rhythm of Kirkwood’s flogging behind her...then Robeson would step back and deliver two, three, sometimes four swipes of the barbed cane, sometimes in time with Kirkwood, sometimes in counterpoint, faster and more wicked, and her tits would wobble like jelly with each impact, and her bare feet would kick against the floor, her toe-ring clicking against the hard stone.
	Kessler circled around the neck-bound bitch, around and behind Kirkwood who kept swinging his flogger with methodic repetitiveness, side to side,
marking her shoulderblades and sweaty back and upper butt-cheeks with hot scarlet streaks, painting welts over welts.
	All three black-hooded men were now naked and aroused as they enjoyed the suffering of their young slaughterwhore.  The single-tailed whips had left dark crimson, cut-tipped lines, matching the color of the rose tattoo on her buttock, all over her, and her babbling screams had echoed in the empty warehouse.
	Her wrist-roped hands, which opened and closed erratically on either side of her at her hips, fingers reaching then closing, blue-hued nails glittering, seemed to plead, like her eyes, for an end to the torture.  But it was pointless to plead, even though her body went on, instinctively portraying defeat, hoping for release. In fact,there was nothing that could inspire her hooded killers more than this involuntary surrender and the defeated body language of their kneeling naked captive.
	They’d watched her be exhaustively fucked by ten strong studs who had yanked her about, slapped and spanked her and spit on her and emptied their balls on her and now it was their turn -it was time to take her where they all had fantasized this young slut should be taken, where they had planned to take her ever since her name had been given to them.
	She would be the first kill in the Vanner warehouse - Kirkwood and Robeson’s first blood.
	“Down!” Robeson growled grabbing her by her hair and pushing her head downward, making her choke on the noose around her neck.
	“Lick my balls!” he ordered.
	Gasping for air, her body jerking to Kirkwood’s constant lashing she
stuck her long pink tongue out and licked at Robeson’s big hairy sweaty genitals.
	“Nice...” Robeson grunted, his fist clutching her blonde mane, working her. “Ahh yeahh...very nice...”
	He then stepped back again and swatted her peach-shaped boobs with the
spiked cane, smiling, looking right into her eyes, his own eyes burning behind the slits in the black leather hood.
	Kessler framed her face.
	The visual of a female’s face in pain was essential for the men who would buy this film. It was what Kessler himself most liked to see: the chimeral, suffering expression of a young helpless bitch and the cruelty of her masked, faceless tormentors, a simple but effective formula of male dominance and aggression, proof-positive that what was happening was real and not staged.  This under-the-counter sequel along with the gang-bang video they’d made earlier would net the killers nearly a million dollars from sources all over the world, usually men, specially in Germany and Japan, rich older men, sometimes powerful and prominent, thirsty for the vision of humiliation and agony that a young naked female being fucked, tortured and slaughtered would provide.
	“Owww! Aiiiii!” Sheila screeched as Robeson swung the barbed cane across her soft belly, holding her steady by her shoulder.
	Kessler focused the videocam on Robeson’s vicious hooded face then on Bill Kirkwood’s.
	“Goddamn!” Kirkwood commented, swinging his flogger harder across the kneeling woman. 
	Sheila’s blue-nailed feet again kicked against the stone floor, toe-ring clicking as her noosed head shook.
	Kessler panned back to the victim, down to her belly to capture the vicious blows Robeson was delivering. Even in the low resolution video monitor it was plain to see that her smooth flesh was being torn open.
	Kessler circled to focus on the flogger as it slashed into the middle of her back. He tracked down following the slashing leather tongues to the rose tattoo at the top of her asscheeks which was already marred with scratch-lines and welts.
	She was getting it from both sides simultaneously, jerking arythmically.
	Robeson and Kirkwood traded places then and the spiked cane swished across her whipped shoulders.
	“N-nnoooaaawwhhhhh!” she wailed as Kirkwood’s flogger found her
bleeding tits.
	Whumpp! Slasshh! Thhhwaackk!
	Her eyes looked up into Bill’s, wide as Stan’s barbed cane pierced into
her asscheeks.
	“Pleeeeeze oh pleeeeeze! oh God! eee-aaahhhwwwwww!”
	“Take it, cunt!” Kessler shouted.
	“Just fucking take it!”
	Again Kessler circled around the kneeling, suffering teen going wide with the lens to capture her writhing body as the men struck blow after blow. Then he went in for a closeup.
	“Look at me, cunt!” he snarled. “Look at the camera!”
	She looked up at his leather-masked face behind the camera lost in a haze of pain.
	Kessler again went wide with the lens as Bill Kirkwood now stepped up to her and shoved his cock in her screaming mouth grabbing her hair to push himself in, pinching her nostrils shut to keep her from biting down as Robeson cane-slashed at her bleeding flanks.
	Choking and sputtering, tears flooding down her cheeks, Sheila was forced
to take cock in her mouth and down her throat.	
	“Suck that cock, you scumbag whore,” Kirkwood sneered. “Suck it and choke on it.”
	He grunted and growled and rocked on the balls of his feet.
	When he turned to Kessler the slit-eyes in the hood mask were half-lidded and dull.
	“Let’s shit on ‘er, Mike...I wanna shit on ‘er...”
	The camera captured this then moved back to the victim.
	“Ngghhh!GGHhh!” Sheila protested through a mouthful of cock.
	“Not a bad idea,” Kessler replied again zooming in to a close-up of the
tormented slut sucking. It was not something they had planned beforehand but it had its merits.
	“The Germans will like that. And the Japs. They’re deep into all that scatological stuff.”
	She was looking right into the camera, the overhead film lights glaring in her tearfilled eyes.
	“...but first I think we should play with her a little bit...” Kessler finished moving back to re-position the camera on the tripod.
	“Yeahh...” Robeson agreed delivering one final full-strength swat of the
barbed cane across both asscheeks.
	Her mouth went wide around Kirkwood’s cock as she shrieked, eyes shut tightly and before the wild scream ended Kessler had already taken a hold of the pulley line around her neck to haul her up on her feet.
	As Kessler yanked on the line Sheila rose clumsily, her breath choked off, almost losing her balance.
	The men moved around her.
	Robeson went into the shadows and returned with a metal gadget.
	It was a chrome implement with a hinge between two tongs: a dental gag.
	“Open your mouth, bitch,” he ordered. Then as he pushed it in: “Wider!” 
	Sheila obeyed passively.
	Robeson shoved the implement into the young girl’s mouth forcing it to gape un-naturally,  making her gag and grunt as the metal tongs gripped her lips uncomfortably.
	“Break her fuckin’ jaw if you have to,” Kirkwood urged.
	Robeson opened up the gag as far as it would go and Kessler pulled Sheila up on tip-toe by her neck, her face going deep scarlet as she struggled to breathe, her jaw muscles straining, tongue rolling in her gaping mouth, neck tendons standing out on her as the rope tightened just above the blue choker ribbon.
	“Let’s do a little breath control on ‘er,” Kessler suggested.  He had a
small plastic bag in one hand as he approached the gasping teen.
	 The other two men watched, slowly stroking themselves as Kessler fitted the plastic bag over Sheila’s slightly angled, wide-mouthed head.
	Sheila was breathing in loud audible gasps as Kessler squeezed the plastic
bag down and tucked the edges under the tight noose sealing it air-tight.
	All three men watched intently, all of them masturbating and circling
the victim predatorially as she gasped for oxygen, her pretty face distorted in the foggy folds of the see-through bag, her calve muscles straining as she tottered and swayed.  She closed her eyes and tried to control her runaway heart and shallow breath but it wasn’t long before she started to get dizzy, dark veils closing over her glazed eyes.
	“...pleeeze...nggh...” she sputtered. “...gghhhh...nnoooo....”
	Robeson reached out and yanked on the pulley line raising her up another half-inch, almost on the very tips of her blue-painted toes.
	Kessler and Kirkwood stared into the young slut’s fading eyes.
	“Whassamatter?” Kessler asked sarcastically. “Havin’ trouble breathing?”
	The men laughed.
	They continued to masturbate.
	Sheila felt her knees start to get wobbly, the dark spots in her eyes more dense.
	“Here’s what’s gonna happen, pig,” Kessler said, speaking right into her
bagged face.
	“You’re going to eat our shit and drink our piss. Then we’re gonna rape your ass every which way and then some.”
	“...gghhh...ghmmm...” Sheila replied.  Her eyes were rolling back in her head and she was going limp.
	Again Robeson gave the rope a tug.
	“Then we’re gonna kill you,” Robeson added meanly.
	“Yeahh...” Kirkwood commented as Sheila let out a soft moan and closed her eyes.
	Robeson kept a hold on the pulley rope and reached down to stroke the suffering teen’s sex-slit with one finger.  He found her moist and trembling inside as he poked the long third finger into her sexhole.
	“Mmm,” he commented. “Check this out. She’s all wet.”
	“Filthy slut,” Kirkwood spat. “I don’t doubt it.”
	Gently, Robeson tightened the grip of the neck rope, pulling, strangling the young girl.  Around her face the plastic bag was completely fogged over with droplets of condensation and her breath was coming in shallow raspy wheezes.
	Her knees gave and her head slumped slightly as she started to faint.
	“Mmm,” Kessler commented softly, his cock throbbing in his hand.
	Robeson let Sheila down to the floor by the strangling rope...her hands, wrist-roped to her thighs had gone limp, blue glitter-nailed fingers limply extended.
	She sank to her knees.
	“Here, pig,” Kirkwood spat reaching out to rip a hole in the bag and stick his huge cock in it. “Breathe this.”
	He let loose a flood of piss on the half-conscious teen’s face. It splashed her cheeks and lips and the inside of the plastic bag.
	Urine ran in dark yellow streaks from the lip of the bag where it was
tucked under the strangling noose and down her welt-streaked chest and bleeding tit meat.
	Robeson laughed and aimed his cock at the outside of the bag as Sheila regained consciousness gagging and coughing, Kirkwood’s piss jetting into her gaping chrome-gag-filled mouth. 
	Robeson’s urine spattered the torn plastic pouch loudly and spilled down Sheila’s shoulder and arm and side.
	Kessler trained his piss-stream on Sheila’s welted and bruised asscheeks and watched the fluid run down her legs and pool on the floor.
	Unable to close her lips Sheila was forced to drink the hot piss Kirkwood now shot down her gullet as he stood, one hand on his hip, a sneer of disgust on his face.
	As they finished emptying themselves on their victim the men tore the dripping plastic bag from her head and pushed her down to the floor to make her lick up their stinking pee.
	Her pretty blonde hair, frazzled from being in the bag now dipped into the
piss puddle on the floor as she dragged her tongue obediently against the cold dirty concrete.
	When they kicked her over on her back she just lay there, moaning, hands bound at her hips, the neck rope lying in a coil around her head, her blonde piss soaked hair like a halo circling her dazed face.
	“Now?” Kirkwood asked.
	Kessler nodded.
	“Fuckin’ great.”
	Kirkwood squatted over her wide-open mouth, his feet in the piss puddle.
	“Gaaaaa!” she gasped. And again: “Gaaaaaaaa!”
	Then a thick hot turd nearly a foot long squeezed out of Kirkwood’s asshole and right into Sheila’s stretched-open lips. Half of the turd flopped over and smeared her cheek as she choked.  A hot stream of shit spattered her forehead and hair and then Kirkwood was finished and moving away.
	Robeson now stood over the shit-splotched face of the suffering teenager.
	He let out a loud fart.
	“Goddamn, Stan!” Kessler joked. “Don’t gas the bitch to death! Just shit on ‘er!”
	Laughing, Kirkwood let loose a gush of loose stool that spattered and puddled on Sheila’s face and tits as she gagged noisily and puked, spitting vomit and shit all over herself, trying to rise but kept down by Kirkwood’s piss-soaked foot on her shoulder.
	Finally Kessler straddled the young girl’s face and let his bowels loose.
	He hadn’t shit that day and hard rancid dung wads spurted gaseously from his asshole covering the young girl’s eyes and spilling in thick noxious streams
down her blonde head.
	Though he had defecated on a female before it was not something he did often. Still, he had to admit, sick as it was, he enjoyed it.  He enjoyed the thick mucky shit-smell in the air and the sight of the degraded, beaten woman lying there, her face covered in the muddy mess. It was specially enjoyable because he  knew that he was going to actually kill this girl and the knowledge, the anticipation of that terrible act, just like back in the ‘Nam the first time, made his cock stiff as a ramrod, and the sensation of his rectum squeezing out faeces all over her was deeply primal. It was relieving and cathartic and he was aware of his own body with a deep animalistic perfection.  Every muscle and every tendon, every nerve was tuned in to the act of sexual destruction and he felt a deep kinship with his two companions, a feeling beyond male bonding or friendship.  The fact that they had all emptied their waste on her and that they would all share in her execution, was deeply symbolic and almost religious.  It was ritualistic.  The fact that Kessler had led these two men, preparing them for and intiating them into what would shortly be their first kill connected them in an extremely special way and they all knew it.
	They lifted the young beaten female off the floor on two metal bars. Her arms, wide apart and cuffed by the wrists hung from one bar; her legs, spread open and raised high by the ankles, feet higher than her head, hung from the other, her blue toes pointed at the ceiling of the warehouse as she groaned, piss and shit spilling from her gaping, clamped mouth, dripping off her hair and face and welted shoulders, her cheeks flushed, eyes lost, brows arched.
	To warm up her cunt for fucking they whipped it viciously with the barbed flogger, each masked agressor taking his turn, giving the bitch twenty cuts before passing the flogger on. When all three had finished blood ran from her torn swollen labia.  Then they went another round.
	She screamed her head off and babbled through the terrible pussy-whipping then gasped, moaned and cried as each of her killers took his turn to fuck her, stepping up to her hanging body, which had been positioned like that of the doomed teenager redhead Larissa, Julie Winnfried’s companion many years earlier, the way male agressors usually position their victims near the climactic end of the ordeal... at just the right height for penetration.  The ironic similarities between the two murders, which were not connected in any way and which occured fifteen years apart would later be duly noted by another victim of Kessler’s demented enterprise, Julie Winnfried - captured and brought to heel in his van, riding through the dark night toward her own ghastly and irreversible fate. 
	It would also be noted by a trustee working in the library at Harris State penitentiary who would watch the tape in the privacy of a locked room with the tacit permission of warden and staff.
	Now, each man fucked Sheila brutally, fucked her cunt and her asshole, ramming in to their balls, to the hilt. They shouted cruel words at her as they did, all three of them, keeping up an endless voraciously humiliating invective.  As one of them impaled the bound suspended female with his prick the other two urged him on, each man taking his pleasure and taking his time, dwelling on the sense of power, knowing that the kill was coming. Eventually, they all pushed against her, one between her legs, the other two framing her face, rubbing their eager cocks on her pretty, shit-smeared cheeks.
	From the shadows, on its tripod where Kessler had left it, the videocam continued to record, red warning light glowing.  Now and then one of the men would get behind it and zoom in for details...Sheila’s beaten body, streaked and bruised with numerous impact wounds, her sweet weeping face, her eyes, the bleeding cuts, her gagged, gaping lips, her blood-torn pussy and assholes accepting big hard stabbing cockmeat.
	Looking up at her killers as she hung in mid-air Sheila also knew and understood that this thrusting ritual would end no other way than in her death.  The idea was like a black blossom in her mind, slowly but surely erasing all sense of sanity.  Long ago, heroin had wiped all sense of identity from her.  Now, bits and pieces of a scattered childhood burst through, tiny images that floated on the sea of torment she was drowning in.   Once she had gone to Catholic school and the nuns had taught the children to sing.  She could hear bits of the song in her head.
	Salve, salve, salve Regina...
	She could also see her drunken father, standing over her bed in the hot, cluttered apartment.
	“Who’s my little girl?” he was saying...his hands on her small thighs.
	“Who’s my little girl?”
	...salve...salve...
	Kessler’s huge cock impaled her, going all the way up her whipped snatch, and she stared up at him suddenly.
	“Stay focused, pig!” he snarled.
	“I want you to feel all of it.  All of it.”
	His hard meat slid in and out of her and his hands gripped her upstretched thighs. He was so big, so mercilessly big. She was filled, awesomely filled, filled to the limit. On either side of her the other two men pushed their pricks against her face and against her whipped shoulders.
	“Agh!” she cried. “Agghhhh!nnnngggg!”
	“She loves it,” Kirkwood spat.
	“Filthy scumbag piece of shit whore,” Robeson muttered.
	“...my little girl...”  she heard her stepfather rant as he plowed into her. Outside the window a distant police siren had wailed.
	She had been running for so long...running...running from town to town, from city to city and nothing or no one could fill her as she was being filled now, here, in this dark warehouse of death...she was a little girl again, hanging, crying, helpless, babbling and filled...filled to the brim with man-meat...hot, relentless, man-meat...Now she knew she did not have to run away.  She had been created just for this.  This was what her step-father had wanted from her. Only this.  This was all she would ever be good for.
	“Aa-ahhh!” she groaned, her head craning back, clamped mouth drooling.
	“Aaaaahhhhwwwhhhh!”
	“Yeah -” Kirkwood shouted. “Fuck the bitch, Mike. Fuck the shit outta her!”
	“Make the whore pay!”
	“Cunt!”
	“Dirty stinking pig!”
	Then they began their assault with the wooden clubs, trading places, one fucking her, the other two beating her. 
	Eager to hear the young bitch beg and scream, Kirkwood tore the dental gag from her mouth so fast that it cut the side of her face on its way out.
	The clubs thudded into her sides, banged her shins and knees as she was
violently rape-fucked.
	The end was coming soon and they all knew it.
	There wasn’t much time left for the little teen-videowhore Sheila.
	...salve Regina...
	The wooden clubs, heavy as baseball bats, heavy bare pinewood sanded smooth, made meaty wet impact sounds as they struck the young female...dryer sounds when they struck bone.
	The men hit hard but not hard enough to break her just yet.
	Biding their time they slammed the young bitch, gradually building momentum to the final release.
	Kessler got behind the camera again even though he hungered for participation.  He knew it was important that the video not be static and that
the action be captured with a sense of rhythm and motion because that’s what sold product. Besides, stepping back from the event as an observer gave him
a more objective, less heated perspective.  His imagination would be triggered to the max by the visualization, he would be able to think more clearly than
when caught up in the heat of action.
	“Harder!” he shouted at his companions as he put down his own club and lifted the videocam on to his shoulder.
	“Beat the shit out of her! Hit her tits...yeahh! Slam her cunt! Yeah! Fuck!...C’mon! Break the bitch!”
	Stan and Bill responded to the expert whore-killer Kessler’s instigations as he circled with the camera and they put their full strength into it, swinging their clubs like batters at the World Series eager for a homer.
	Robeson slammed down on her bleeding tits and Kirkwood on her
knees. They purposefully avoided her head because they wanted her to live,
to survive, to be conscious and sentient right to the very end.
	That was essential to their plan.
	The blows came faster and harder until one rib snapped, then another...
One leg bone cracked with a surprisingly loud report that made the men shout
in unison as the young whore shrieked in agony.  Kirkwood aimed a well-placed blow on one knee drawing a wailing scream.
	“Goddamn fucking bitch!” he snarled and struck again on the resistant
limb.
	Still it would not break.
	“Bitch has strong bones,” Kessler commented.
	“Musta drank her fuckin’ milk every day,” Robeson added.
	“Yeah,” Kirkwood noted. “Man-milk maybe.”
	The men laughed wildly.
	“Give it all you got, Bill,” Kessler growled hoarsely training the camera on Sheila’s bruised knee.
	“Yaaahhhh!” Kirkwood shouted as he swung his club one final time shattering the bound teenager’s kneecap.
	Kessler panned up to the screaming face of the victim as she shook her head wildly from side to side.
	 Robeson swung his club up into her upstretched arm and broke it, striking again lower down to dislocate her shoulder, and still lower to hit her back and flanks.
	Sheila coughed up blood between screams, gasped for air and jerked from side to side as the clubs fell.
	Kirkwood pounded her belly then shoved the tip of the club up her asshole, ramming the weapon deep until the tortured bitch’s screams were shrill.  Then he yanked it out and struck viciously at both hanging thighs.
	Ugly dark purple bruises began to pop up on Sheila’s legs and tits and belly.  Where the bones had broken her flesh had begun to puff redly.
	Kessler now returned the camera to the tripod, leaving it aimed on the gruesome scene of destruction to take up his club and join his companions.
	For another fifteen minutes they pounded the hanging teenager mercilessly, took her to the limit of pain, broke more ribs, cracked her hip, shattered her
spleen and kidneys, made her bleed from her cunt and from her mouth and from her asshole.  Her eyes were already rolling back, glazed as she barely clung to consciousness, her cries weaker, her gasps breathless.
	“Should we kill her this way?” Kirkwood asked as he struck at the kicking leg, the one not yet broken.
	The men continued to beat their victim wordlessly.  Bill’s question seemed to hang in the air but none of them wanted to stop. The beating was beautiful, physically draining but deliciously cleansing for them.  The sounds of wood smacking womanskin, the cries of pain from her...It was what they needed.
To exhort the demons inside them, to let them out and watch them work.  Bill and Stan led normal every day lives in  Seabrook and this was the first time that
their deepest darkest most unacceptable passion was allowed free reign.
	The bitch was going limp under their terrible assault.
	Kirkwood struck at her feet breaking one heel.
	“Jesus...” Kessler hissed, still swinging his club.  He had struck at least
seventeen full strength slams across her tits.  Blood erupted from her dark
swollen nipplemeat.  He was pretty sure most of her ribs were busted.  Blood
spurted from her nostrils and though her eyes were open she was becoming
quickly unresponsive. Now and then she would make odd gurgling noises in her throat, moaning pitifully.
	“We should cut her open...”Robeson grunted. “...before she fuckin’ dies...”
	“Yeah...”Kirkwood added. “After all, that WAS the original plan.”
	Gradually the hooded men stopped beating the hanging female and one by one they lay their clubs on the floor.
	They released her legs from the metal bar and she slumped, hanging by her
wrists before them like a broken mannequin.
	“...pleease...” she groaned weakly looking up at them, her eyes moving sadly from one to the other. “...please...k-kill...me...”
	“You little pig...” Kessler growled.  “Don’t you  fuckin’ worry about it...We’re gonna tear you to shreds....”
	She began to sob softly, hanging her head.
	Nothing would ever be as perfect for Kirkwood and Robeson as that moment when, along with their cruel mentor, who had years earlier baptized himself in bitch blood in the sweltering Vietnamese jungle, they stood surrounding the hanging female, their first kill, the videocam rolling to the end.  For all three men it was the beginning of a long, pleasurable, extremely profitable but, in the end, tragically terminal association.
	The tape would be titled Bloody Snuff One, and most males who watched it for what it was, knowing what to expect would be more than satisfied, even though most of them believed it was fake.  Hundreds of times, all over the world, the slaughter of the young whore Sheila would play on flickering screens for hungry male eyes, repeatedly, obsessively.  Along with subsequent videos that Kessler and his companions would make, all sold secretly, the tapes would fulfill the fantasies of men whose lives were otherwise normal and even respectable.  Even the most humane and loving fathers would put their children to sleep and retire to a dark room to watch the mayhem in the snuff videos alone, finding a deep pleasure their wives or common street whores could never provide.
	Some men even discovered that the girls on the illicit tape were the same girls on the video available on the shelf at the porno store and they would wonder...Was it possible? Were there men somewhere really fortunate enough to fulfill the deep rootless yearning?  Were there men so lucky that they could kill a whore with total impunity and actually make money doing it?
	Again and again the men who purchased the tape would rewind Bloody Snuff One to that moment before the catastrophic finale when the bitch looked up at the hooded identity-less agressors and her lips barely moved to the terrible words: 	“...please - kill - me...”
	Were there men so fortunate in this world as to hear those words from a beaten half-dead slut?
	It had to be fake. Staged.
	The hooded killers now freed Sheila’s legs from the suspension bar and hauled her up by her wrists until her toes, dripping blood, left the floor, until she hung three feet off the ground, ankles tied together.
	She was like a surrealistic Dali masterpiece, a floating martyr hovering in mid-air.
	Kessler stood on tiptoe to remove the blue choker from around her neck and then bent down to get the gold ring from her toe.  The ring might fetch a couple of bucks but it would be safer to bury it, along with all her clothes in the first grave that would be dug out behind the warehouse at the edge of the woods.
	One year and two months later the tape Bloody Snuff One would be secreted into a prison library and viewed by eager eyes. One year and nine months later there would be thirty graves, one empty, waiting to be filled. Two years later Julie Winnfried would also see the tape of Sheila’s slaughter after her ride to the warehouse of death in Kessler’s van, shackled and crying.  
	But all that was still in the future at that moment, that special moment when Kessler and his men took up the thirteen-inch long stainless steel butcher knives.

(There is nothing like that first moment, when you are sure, when you know the bitch is yours for the taking.  No fantasy and no dream comes close to the real action.  And this action will change you forever.  There will be no going back.  The knife in your hand, the beaten flesh waiting.  There is truth here. Deep and resonant truth. You  can hear her breathing and smell her.  You can see blood pulsing in her neck.  She  moans softly and trembles.  Her thighs press together.  She yearns for it too, yearns for the cold sharp blades to cut the life out of her and end the ordeal.  Soon you will be bitchkillers.  Whore-butchers. The line will have been crossed.)

	Now, knives in hand, all three men thrusted into the hanging young teen simultaneously.  Kirkwood almost came right then.  He had not imagined the sound of the sharp blade piercing into a girl’s belly, was not ready for the
incredible beauty of it: the harsh hollow ripping...the victim’s deep-throated grunt...her quivering jerky response.
	“Ahh...” Kessler groaned as he slowly pulled the blade back out of her side.
	Blood bubbled and spurted from the gash.
	“Ngh - ghaa - ahhhggh!” Sheila babbled.
	“Yessss...” Robeson hissed pushing his blade to the hilt right above her left hip.  He saw her belly bulge out in front and then he saw the tip of the blade exit as her head rolled back.
	“Fuckin’ beautiful,” Kessler growled.
	Going around behind her, Kirkwood ran the edge of the blade from her neck to her asscrack, right down the middle of her spine.  She arched responsively. He pushed firmly on the knife, harder as he moved down so that by the time it got all the way to just above her asscheeks, to the liliac spine, he was already grinding against her tailbone.  Her bound legs kicked in response and she inhaled with her mouth open, simultaneously groaning, bloody drool running down her chin.
	In front of her, Robeson gently lifted her bruised bloody paps in one hand to stab into each battered globe several times, staring into her face as she responded to Kirkwood’s blade opening up her back.
	“You’re a filthy scumbag whore,” Robeson said meanly. Her blood ran on to his fingers and down her chest and belly.  Her swollen broken knee twitched against his leg.
	“Say it,” he half-whispered savagely. “I wanna hear you say it before you die.”
	He stabbed her left breast then her right.
	“Ahgg -” she groaned. “I-ahm-m-m a f-filthy - oowhhhh!”
	Kessler stopped her words by plunging his knife into her right calf, just below her kneehollow.
	“Yeah!” he shouted at her. “Go on - finish - what the fuck are you?”
	“Finish, cunt!” Robeson urged.  He pressed the edge of the blade to her left nipple.
	“...aah - fi-filthy - s-scum-baghh - whoore...AAiiiieeeee!”
	As she finished he sliced deep into bruised nipplemeat and proceeded to carve her nipple from her breast.
	Kirkwood slipped the knife out of Sheila’s sliced back.  Blood coursed down her slashed ass-cheeks and the back of her thighs.  Kessler ran his hands over the bleeding legs.  He brought his free hand to his mouth and licked up the young slut’s blood from his fingers.  He drew several deep gash-slices into her calves. He pierced into the back of her broken knee, plunging the blade almost half-way in.  	
	Kirkwood whipped her rump with his blade hard. Her blood spattered his belly and erect cock.
	Robeson savagely cut the nipple-less breast in half then bit the nipple from the other bleeding swollen titmound as Sheila raised her head and shrieked mindlessly.
	Kirkwood and Kessler were down on one knee on either side of her stabbing her legs.  Blood squirted and jetted in every direction.
	Robeson began to cut her whole right tit off her. He cut all the way around and pulled the slab of titflesh off the whore’s broken ribcage. It fell to the floor with a wet slosh.
	“Let’s gut the fuckin’ cow,” Kessler snarled.
	Again, the killers plunged their blades into the whore’s belly.  This time they stabbed as deep as possible and then gashed downward ripping her belly
open from three different directions.  
	Kirkwood took his knife out then stabbed the dying teenager in her cunt viciously and tore upwards toward her belly button.
	Sheila puked blood.  Above her her noosed blue-nailed hands were wide open.
	She looked up at the ceiling and arched and jerked and quivered.
	Kessler withdrew the knife from the gross slash in the teen’s belly and squeezed his hand into her hot gut sac.  Taking a hold of a coil of intestines he
began to rip  it slowly out of her.  Shit blood and bile poured down her thighs.
	“Oohhgggggwwwwwwwhhh!” she gurgled.
	Both Kirkwood and Robeson took Kessler’s lead, taking their weapons out of the wounded whore and reaching into the muck of her squirming body to rip her guts out.  Hot spurts of blood spattered Kirkwood as he knelt in front of the doomed girl.  Red streams ran down his face and neck.
	It was now almost over and Kessler, in fact all three men, were lost, each in his own sick euphoria of destruction. Kessler had managed to destroy the victim exactly as planned, in slow progressive stages; he’d kept her alive, just as he’d fantasized about, for a final and dramatic end which all three of them had envisioned only a few days earlier...

	...He goes to the camera to make sure it is aimed properly then he reaches up to pull down a strand of wire that descends from the metal grid-beam in the ceiling. Quickly, while Robeson and Kirkwood continue to slowly rip the girl’s guts out, he winds the black wire tight around her neck.
	He picks up the machete which leans against the wall.
	This is it,  he tells himself. He’s been here before.
	Kirkwood and Robeson see him swing the deadly weapon above his head
and slash right through Sheila’s left arm.  The blade goes through her with a whang, just above the elbow.  Her upper arm, a bleeding stump swings free and the wrist-bound hand and lower arm dangle from the metal bar above, twitching.Then Kessler strikes again, slicing right through her broken arm. Again the stumped arm springs loose. Bits of bone and flesh spatter the wall. Like a lifeless puppet she collapses, severed free of her suspended arms, held up on her toes by the wire around her neck which instantly gouges through the skin and begins to  strangle her and slice her jugular.
	Taking a hold of the pulley line that holds the wire in place Kessler begins to lower the arm-less whore slowly to her knees.
	Her killers stand over her.
	“You know what to do, bitch” Robeson snarls and pushes his cock against her face.
	She’s almost passing out from the traumatic loss of blood and limb now but still, obediently, she takes Robeson’s huge shaft.
	Robeson grabs her by the hair and gouges her with his cock, chokes her with it, fucks her throat hole with it, pulls out to slap some life into her then plunges in for the last time into his first kill.
	“Yeahh -” he grunts. “Oh yeahh - yeahh -yeaaAHHH!”
	He cums in hard spurts that fill the dying slaughter-teen’s bloody mouth and then he steps back wiping himself off on her cheeks.
	Kirkwood steps in and takes her by her ears. Viciously he fucks her
throat, pitilessly, mindlessly, until his balls surge and he shouts.
	“Filthy fucking goddamn pig SLUT!”
	He pulls his spurting cock out and shoots off in her eyes and hair. Still hard he slides back into her mouth and keeps pumping himself in her throat, enjoying the sensation of her blood spewing down his balls and thighs, watching her arm stumps waggle in the air like the useless wings of a barnyard hen.  Then he too steps aside to collapse on the couch and watch the final destruction.
	Kessler stands before his kill, machete in hand.
	“You’re mine now, scumbag!”
	With a savage shout he drives the machete blade into her chest between the carved out shells of her tit bags.
	“Die!” he shouts and pushes the machete all the way through her slicing into her aorta and the top half of her pumping heart.
	Then standing in front of her he jerks off watching her expire.
	Blood spews and spurts from the edges of the machete wound.
	Her breath comes in shorter and less frequent gasps.
	She looks up at him then her head falls forward limply.
	He can still hear her breathing, shallowly, fruitlessly.
	Blood flows copiously out of her.
	She kneels in a big gelatinous puddle of it.
	He lifts her head by her hair, takes her mouth by her cheeks, his thumbs inside her lips spreading her mouth wide, disfiguring her pretty face, to push his cock down the spermfilled hole.  Her glazed eyes are focused on his.
	“Die - on - my - cock -” he spits.
	Kirkwood and Robeson watch in awe. It is like seeing a matador in the final graceful execution of a veronica on the bull in the arena.
	Weakly she begins to suck him but gradually he is doing all the work, pistoning in and out of her slobbering lips.
	Slowly he sees the life leaving her. The last of her warm breath is on his balls and dick. Her face muscles are going slack.
	“ - fucking - goddamn - piece - of - shit - cunt...”
	He is standing barefoot in her blood. She is looking up at him...could there be anything more beautiful than this now as his cock tingles and his balls tighten up and hot jets of cum ripple up and shoot into her mouth.  He almost tears her hair out of her head with the force that shakes him. He holds on to her as if she
were the only solid thing in the universe, this dying whore an anchor, for everything that is slipping away.  She makes a fading moaning sound and then
all life is gone and his cum is slithering from her dead lips and down her
wire strangled neck.  A second orgasmic wave hits him and he sinks into her
dead throat and fucks it, pushes his thumbs into her dead eyes, spits on her dead face and finally sighs with overwhelming relief as he steps back from the butchered, desecrated female.
	He pulls the blood-smeared machete slowly out of her with some effort then with a quick sweep he cuts the wire that holds her up by her neck.
	She topples to the ground, nothing more now than a carcass. Something to be disposed of.  Ted Bundy’s phrase to describe his victims passes through Kessler’s mind: 
	used baggage.
	Above, her slender arms still dangle by the wrists from the suspension bar.
	Pale, blue-nailed fingers curl lifelessly.
	Warm, thick, dark blood still drips from the grisly stumps.
	A whirring mechanical noise from the videocam startles the men.
	The tape has run out.
	They chuckle. Slowly they remove their leather hoods.
	After a few moments of rest they will begin to clean up.
	Later, they will bury Sheila in the grave out back, behind the warehouse.
	Then, all the details will be wrapped up: Sheila’s car, her apartment in town.
	Her landlord will receive a letter he will believe is from Sheila, one page, single spaced, signed on the bottom, a letter Kessler will type and send while taking a weekend trip up to the city, telling the landlord that she will not be coming back, telling him to forward all the contents of her apartment to a Salvation Army warehouse.
	Efficiently dealing with both problems at the same time, Kessler will drive Sheila’s old Mazda for that trip up to Chicago were it, like other vehicles he has disposed of, will be swallowed up by his chop-shop contact on the South Side.
	Some people in Seabrook, among them Julie Winnfried, will wonder what
became of the pretty slightly offbeat young girl that used to pop in for breakfast at Walker’s. 	
	But soon she will have faded from memory.
	No one will ever link the girl from the town to the girl on the porn videos.
	No clue will ever be found. No police agency will ever be alerted.
	And for a few weeks the warehouse will be all shadows and silence.

5. Julie Arrives
(Wednesday -  Midnight)

	Blind in the darkness of the silk hood, shackled on the floor of the vehicle, Julie sensed the van driving off the main road and felt it gradually come to a stop.
	After the engine idled and stopped she heard the killer get out, heard his door slam then she heard the van’s side gate slide open.
	The trip had not lasted very long and she wondered where she had been taken. Probably somewhere inland, somewhere up highway 251.
	She heard the killer climb into the rear of the van, felt him tugging at her and releasing her from the chains and cuffs and then he was pulling off her hood.  
	The cool night air was sweet, perfumed with some the scent of pine trees coming from the nearby woods, fresh on her flushed cheeks. The cabin light of the van was off but there was a bare bulb hanging from a cable over a metal stairway outside the van and after being kept in hooded darkness she was blinded by its stark, harsh glow.
	“Come on, bitch,” he ordered.  “On your feet.”
	He led her out into the night. She moved uncertainly, and as she staggered down her legs hurt from having been folded under her.  He closed the sliding door of the van behind her and she saw him reach into his jacket pocket.
	She saw the dog collar in his hand and she watched helplessly as he raised it and buckled the black leather strap tight around her slender neck.
	Taking up the small chain-leash he looked at her.
	He was standing between her and the bright light over the metal stairway and she could not make out his cruel face.  The cloth that had been shoved in her mouth  and roped harshly in place prevented her from speaking.
	She felt more helpless than she’d felt in her whole life as the stranger stared at her.
	Behind him she could make out a looming dark structure.  She knew it to be the old abandoned Vanner Warehouse and remembered having driven past the place many times in the last few years. 
	He reached up, undid the rope that held the washcloth in her mouth and ungagged her, tossing the cloth aside. 
	While he held her by the leash in one hand, his other hand rose slowly from the shadows.  He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, slowly, still staring at her. Tugging on the leash gently he pulled her face closer to his. She could feel his warm breath on her lips and now she could see the reflection of the bare bulb over the warehouse staircase in his dark eyes.
	“I’m going to kiss you,” he whispered, the gleaming pin-point of light dancing in his fathomless pupils. “And you’re gonna kiss me back.”
	He gave her no time to think as the leash pulled her toward him.  Her dressy shoes slid on the moist grass and she almost lost her balance.  Her hands reached forward to grab a hold of his jacket.
	“Don’t touch me,” he snapped.  “Keep your hands at your sides.”
	She was overwhelmed by the sharp musky scent from him as she released the expensive fabric of his jacket and suddenly his lips closed over hers as the leash pulled her slightly forward.
	She moaned softly at the unexpected sensuality of his hot wet kiss.  His
free hand gripped her silky hair and his tongue pushed into her mouth.  As he drew her against him she could feel the holstered gun under his jacket hard against her right breast, unyielding.  Involuntarily her nipples stiffened to the contact with her captor and she yielded to him, kissed back as he’d ordered her to do.  After all, what choice did she have?
	His strong fingers gripped her skull as he continued to prod his tongue into every corner of her warm moaning mouth, his teeth raking her lips, his breath mixing with hers. Then his fingers left the back of her head and pushed at her
lips, widening her mouth still further as he slurped on her, nibbled and
shoved his fingertips into her drooling mouth.
	It was an obscene, lustful, groping kiss, like none she’d ever known, even from her wild days with strangers in motel rooms.  She gagged as his fingers pushed deeper into her mouth but he held her by the leash.  Her eyes, which were shut tightly, teared up as she let herself be manhandled.  Then, her mind slipped back to that day long ago in the prison, Riemann across the table from her, his strong hand exploring, groping under her short skirt as he told her how he had pushed the metal pipe into Larissa’s bound body.  She envisioned strong masculine hairy hands pushing up into her own vaginal passage and down her throat reaching for some living core of warmth inside her - something the men wanted desperately and would not stop until they had it, until they possesed it completely.  She hung on the brink of sanity, on the edge of total blackout, disoriented, as the killer’s grueling unforgettable kiss came abruptly to an end and he stepped back.
	“I want you to get on your hands and knees,” he told her. 	
	Though her eyes were wide and staring in surprise she could not see his expression. Warm tears moistened her cheeks.
	She hesitated and was about to speak when his hand flew up and smacked the side of her face and simultaneously he yanked down on the leash around her neck.
	“Now!”  he snarled.
	She slid down to the grassy edge of the gravel driveway instantly.
	“That’s right,” he commented.  “From now on you have no will of your own.  You will obey every command you are given. You will never speak unless spoken to. You will be called slave, slut, whore, dog, bitch, cow - anything me and my friends wish to call you. You are no longer a human being.  You are meat. You live for our pleasure. You live to serve and please us in any way we see fit.”
	He yanked on the leash and she was forced to crawl behind him on to the hard gravel.  The driveway ended after a few paces as he led her around the dark
building and the ground was grass again.  Her pantyhose had ripped and she could feel the cold wetness on her skin as she dragged herself after him.
	He moved along silently and purposefully and his large strides made it difficult for her to keep up.
	“Please,” she gasped.
	He turned suddenly and kicked his hard booted foot into her chest winding her, making her crumple with a whimpering cry.
	“I told you. NEVER speak unless ordered to!”
	He leaned over her and pulled her face up to his by the leash.
	“Understand?”
	“-y-yesss - yes!”
	Again, and viciously he slapped her while still holding her by the leash.
	The sound of it exploded in her ears leaving behind a deafening shrillness.
	“Yes - SIR!” he shouted. “From here on in you will refer to me or my friends as Sir or Master nothing else and I want to hear it everytime you answer a question. Every - single - time - Is that fucking clear?”
	“Y-yess ... yes s-sir...”
	“That’s nice, slut. Real nice. Now - CRAWL!”
	He yanked on the leash and she had no choice but to follow, the toes of her dressy shoes dragging in the wet grass as she did.
	As he led her behind the warehouse he moved away from the building and toward a swaying row of pine trees about thirty feet from the rear warehouse wall. 
	In the dim moonlight through the canopy of trees she could make out what
seemed to be stone markers, the size of single bricks, spaced three or four feet apart.  As he pulled her to the end of the markers she noticed the deep hole that had been dug there and suddenly she realized that what she was looking at was some kind of cemetery and that the hole, a deep jagged cut in the earth, could be nothing but a freshly dug grave.
	He pulled her right to the edge of the stirred-up earth and then his foot was at the back of her neck pressing her face down into the dark soil.
	“That’s where you’re gonna end up when we’re finished with you,” he told her.
	She looked into the gaping darkness and whimpered.
	“Yeah,” he continued. “And you won’t be alone in there, either.  See all the markers?”
	She looked around as much as his booted foot on her neck would allow.  	The rows of markers extended into the shadows of the woods and she couldn’t guess how many of them there were.
	“There’s two or three cunts buried in each hole. How do you like that? Huh?  What do you think of that?”
	“Thirty holes and sixty-five hos,” he joked chuckling sickly.
	His foot pressed her face into the dirt.
	“Go ahead,” he sneered. “Taste that. Taste it, bitch. Its going to be your permanent home soon.”
	She sputtered as her nostrils pressed into the dirt and suddenly he yanked on her leash pulling her up on her knees.
	“Strip for me,” he whispered leaning down over her, his face above her left shoulder.
	“...take off all your clothes and throw them in the hole.” He gestured with his hand. “In there. Understand?”
	She nodded.
	He twisted her toward him and slapped her hard holding on to her by the leash. She gave out a startled cry, the back of her hand coming up to her lips.
	“Don’t you ever fucking nod your head at me, slut - Answer your Master properly.”
	“Y-yes sir,” she whimpered feeling the hot breath of her words against the skin of her hand.
	“Yes, SIR. I understand, SIR.” he snarled.  “SAY IT.”
	“Y-yes - s-sir - I - I understand, s-sir -”
	“That’s more like it. Now get your fucking clothes off, you prissy little cunt. You won’t be needing them ever again.”
	The terrible finality of his words sent a shiver through her. But she also felt a nervous flutter of anticipation and her eyes trailed up furtively to the stranger’s face above her as she began to undo the row of buttons down the front of the beige knit dress.
	“Don’t eyeball me, slut,” he growled. “Keep your eyes on the ground.”
	Her glance instantly moved to the dark grassblades as she slid the silky
garment back off her shoulders pulling the edge of the hem out from under her knees to toss it into the hole on her right.  She heard it slide to the bottom of 
the freshly dug grave with a sighing rustle as she reached back to undo her bra strap, shivering as the cool breeze swept up around her.
	 “You are a slaughter-whore now,” he told her watching as she undid the hook in the brassiere and gently rolled the bra straps off her shoulders. The word was new and strange and it made her skin crawl. “ A slaughter-whore has no rights or priviliges. She is a piece of worthless fuckmeat. A useless thing. Trash. A slaughter-whore exists only to please her masters with her agony and her death.”
	He watched as her breasts tumbled free.  They were bigger and fuller than he had imagined, certainly not massive, but full and round, tipped with dark brown nipples and aurolae the size of silver half dollars.
	She paused for a moment and then he licked his lips as she hooked her fingers in her panty hose and began pushing it down off her thighs.  She sat on the ground to pull the stockings the rest of the way off and he heard her sniffling as she did so, tears of shame mixed with terror spilling down her cheeks.
	“The shoes too,” he told her as she pulled the torn pantyhose down to her feet. “...prissy little fuck...”
	He watched her pry off her low-heel dress shoes and drop them along with the pantyhose in the hole.
	All she had left on now was her blue silk panties, the ones Tim had given her as a Valentine’s day gift from the Victoria’s Secret catalogue.  Lacy and frilly.  Romantic.  Completely out of place now.  The last vestige of her everyday life in Seabrook.  The last vestige of normalcy, of civilization. The last vestige of her life as a free human being.
	She sat in the dirt sobbing, wiping at her tears with one hand.
	“What are you waiting for?” he growled coldly.  “I want you naked, bitch. Naked as the fucking day you came into the world - and that means your ring and your ear-rings too. You’re an animal and an animal has no right to property.”
	She sat on the ground crying for a few moments knowing that if she didn’t do as he asked he would probably do it for her, or pull the gun out and blow her head off right then, so it did not matter one way or another - she was already his.
	She slipped off her ear-rings and her wedding ring held them for a final moment in her hand and then let them fall into the darkness of the grave.  Then
reluctantly she rose to her feet and pulled her panties down her long slender legs to step out of them. Kessler was pleasantly surprised to discover she shaved her mons.  It was as smooth as a little girl’s. 
	Before she tossed her skimpy undergarment into the hole he yanked on her leash.
	“Give those to me,” he growled.
	She offered them up and he snatched them from her hand and stuffed them deep into his jacket pocket.
	“On your knees,” he told her.
	As she sank back down to the ground he stood over her, unzipped his pants with one quick downward move and pulled out his hard erect manmeat.  He pulled her face to his cock by the leash.
	“Keep your hands at your sides and lick,” he instructed. “Make me big and hard.”
	As he tugged on the leash she looked up at his cock.  It was already big and hard as far as she was concerned,  a shaft of solid cockflesh like gray
granite in the soft moonlight.
	Gingerly, she opened her mouth and touched it with her tongue.
	He grabbed her hair.
	“Lick it you stupid animal,” he growled. “I know you know how. Sluts like you always know how. You fucking dream about doing it.”
	She closed her eyes and gulped with disgust as she began to lick the veined shaft, the bitter smell of him coming off him like steam.
	His cock began to expand massively and to hook upward.
	“Good,” he moaned. “That’s right...all the way down to my balls...mmm
yeahhh...that’s a good girl...Work me with that tongue, slut....that’s it....”
	He moved her head by her hair and tugged on the leash his hips gyrating slightly.  She let him guide her, her hands resting limply on her knees.
	Slowly he pushed her head back, away.
	“Open your mouth,” he instructed. “...wide...yes...wider...good...That’s it - good bitch...”
	He looked down at her as she waited open-mouthed, drool spilling from her lower lip.  He made her wait, made her feel the long wait, her eyes closed,
her body shivering in the cold night air.  She was beautiful kneeling naked there like that, one of the best looking cunts he’d ever captured. Obediently she kept her eyes closed, not looking up at him now that he had tilted her head upward.
	His face was hard and mean as he stared at her, his thoughts dark and murderous. He had plans for this gorgeous, open-mouthed, drooling bitch. Very definite plans worked out with Kirkwood and Robeson over the last few days.  She would be the star of their best snuff video ever.  He would see to that.  
	In the years since their first victim Sheila had bled and died for the camera all three men had become, like Kessler, expert bitch-killers, knowing how to hurt a woman and how to make it last.  All of their well-honed talents would be used on Julie Winnfried. ‘This sweet bitch has no clue of what’s coming,’ he thought.   She was a perfect piece of ass and deserved as much suffering as he and his companions could devise, as much as she could endure.  She deserved to be taken to the absolute limit. 
	Though for years he’d derived pleasure from killing young women and girls Kessler knew that this woman, fully mature, in her mid thirties, intelligent, somber and somewhat sad, this woman had a depth he’d not encountered before.  He knew this woman would give him and the others the most deliciously extreme sadistic pleasure.  There were things about her he suspected, things he would definitely find out.  He was eager to tear every secret from her and to squeeze every bit of physical and psychological anguish he could get from her.
	He was gonna milk her dry.
	Slowly he stepped toward her and posited his huge cock in her soft lips.
	“Suck,” he uttered.
	She moaned softly in her throat as he pulled on the leash, tugged on her
silky brown hair and slid into her mouth.  Her hands balled up into fists at her sides but she did not fight or resist.  Instead she knelt in the dirt and made love to the woman-killer with her mouth right there at the edge of her grave, her mind slipping already into the dark earth, remembering Larissa long ago, her laugh, her wild red hair in the blowing wind.
	As he began to fuck her wet mouth with slow thrusting moves, the head of his prick searching for her throat hole, his hand yanking on her head, the leash
choking her, she let her mind slip, she let herself be taken.  And she saw the murdered women and girls in her mind coming up out of their graves in the
cool night, whispering in the moonlit forest, the pine boughs whistling.  They were watching as she gave herself to her Master, as she surrendered...for what else were women for but for this?  And the dead women’s hands were busy, their legs spread open as they rubbed themselves and groaned in pain, agony and delight.  
	The killer fucked her mouth urgently and as he did Julie could see Larissa hanging on the fence that separated the forest from the Weston farm, dead and swollen, the metal pipe sticking out of her bleeding abdomen.  Julie looked into her friend’s face and Larissa was smiling, an open-lipped beatific smile of sexual release as clouds moved silently through a purple sky above her.
	‘You should have come with me,’ Larissa said softly, her voice no louder than the whispering moans of the other dead women. No louder than the scented breeze moving through the tree branches.
	‘You should have come with me. The pain is...sweet.  The killing pain the men give us. It’s perfect, Julie. It’s the way things should be. Women are meant to hurt. To hurt and hurt and hurt, Julie. We are meant to be split - wide - open...You’ll see...You’ll find out...’
	Kessler heard his slave start to weep as she sucked his cock and he smiled. He didn’t know what had triggered her sentimental outburst. Fear? Disgust? Shame? Though he relished it, he didn’t much care, his hand moving down from her hair to her throat, both hands around her slender leashed neck as he thrust in and out of her lovely mouth.  He’d been waiting for this moment since he’d begun stalking her nearly a month earlier.
	“Yeah, pig...please me...please me...”
	“Mmmmmm...” she groaned, tears spilling off her cheeks as she squeezed his huge shaft with her lips, gagging and choking as he thrust deep into her
throat, licking his piss-slit as he pulled almost all the way out.
	“Yeah - yeah - yeah -” he grunted pushing all the way back in. “You’re a goddamn slut, aren’t you?  I could tell before, from the way you kissed me. You fucking loved it. Filthy piece of shit cunt - slut - whore - Suck me...yeah...that’s right...suck it down your fucking throat, scumbag.”
	The visions of the dead woman faded as the killer’s terrible words gouged her.  No one, not even the sadistic men she’d met in the motels or the ones she’d communicated with on the Internet, had ever treated her like this or called her such names...No one had ever made her feel this dirty...this vile....no one except the creature that had sat across from her at the table in the prison...the creature that had ended Larissa’s life...the creature that had touched her so knowingly.
	As she responded to her killer’s demeaning words and thrusting cock in her lips Julie felt a hot wetness in her womb, a dark spreading shadow of warmth and quivering.  In the twelve years she had been married to Tim she had never felt any experience that would match what she was feeling now.  She loved Tim and bore his children but had never had a real orgasm in their bed.  Only once had she ever been close to feeling the unleashed energy that now vibrated in her - that was sixteen years ago, sitting at a wooden table across from Larissa Wilson’s murderer.
	“Swallow it!” Kessler shouted pulling Julie forward, strangling her,
her face pushed into his crotch, his engorged phallus lodged in her gasping gurgling throat as she tried to breathe and choked and drooled.  One hand continued to strangle her the other went to the back of her head to hold her to him as he slammed his hips forward.
	“You want my cum?” he shouted at her. “Huh? You want it? You want it?”
	“Ghmm!” she groaned, eyes shut tightly, her face flushed.
	“Goddamn fuckhole,” he snarled and suddenly yanked her back off his cock.
	Her eyes flew open as he raised his leg put his boot to her tits and shoved her back toward the grave.
	With a cry of surprise she staggered backward losing her balance and toppled into the dark earth falling to the bottom of the hole with a breathless thump.
	Instantly, she tried to climb to her feet, cold soil crumbling around her as her hands scrabbled at the sides of the confining ditch. Something crawled up her leg to her thigh and leaped off, burrowing back into the dirt.  She screamed and whined pitifully and much as she tried to she couldn’t climb out of the deep pit.
	Above her Kessler stood, his cock aimed at her, a sneer of contempt on his face.
	“Stand still, bitch!” he ordered.
	“You don’t deserve my sperm. You haven’t earned that privilige.”
	“This is all you’re gonna get right now,”  Instantly a stream of hot urine began to hiss from his cock.
	His piss pattered down on her as she tried to cover herself. It burned on her cool skin as it trickled down her shoulders and tits and her thighs while she crouched down sobbing on the crumpled rags that were her clothes.
	“Don’t fucking hide your face from me!” he shouted angrily.
	“You hear me?”
	Obediently she raised her face into the moonlight and the hot fluid rained down on her cheeks.
	“Drink it,” he ordered.
	It took her a couple of seconds and her face revealed only disgust but finally she opened her mouth.
	“That’s it,” he sneered, an evil leering smile on his face. “That’s a good piece of shit whore.”
	“Ghagghhh - it’s - soo - ggrosss -” she wailed.
	He laughed, emptying his bladder on her pretty face and when he was done and she was standing in his muddy piss in the grave that her used and broken body would be dumped into he tucked his cock back into his pants, reached down, grabbed the leash and yanked her up by her neck helping her to scramble up out of the ground.
	“Crawl,” he spat.
	She slid down on all fours instantly, followed on his heels like a faithful dog across the moist grass, his piss dripping from her mouth, off her face and hair, down her arms,  and she sobbed softly as he moved toward the looming shadows of the warehouse.
	“You don’t know what gross is, whore,” he muttered softly.
	“You have no fucking idea.”

6. Julie Initiated
(Thursday 1 AM)

	For the victim there is a first vivid moment of deep horror, inescapable and radical.
	For Julie, though she had been terrified since her capture outside Walker’s, the moment did not come then, with the gun pressed to her head, or even when looking up into the face of her killer as he stood victoriously over the pit that would eventually be her grave, pissing on her moonlit cheeks.
	For Julie the moment of deepest horror came when she saw Sheila being slaughtered on the monitor screen inside the warehouse.
	At that crucial juncture Julie was erased, emptied.  She was nothing and yet everything.  It was as if the universe from her perspective had collapsed, shattered and been re-assembled into some hideous new shape never grasped before.
	Kessler had brought her crawling, naked and dripping man-piss, into the shadows of the warehouse and had cuffed her wrists in leather manacles raising them together to an overhead chain-line, pulling her upward, stretching her beautifully, making her slide her feet into slutty high heel sandals he took from a cabinet as she stood, then cuffing her ankles together with thick, broad, black leather straps.	
	He told her she looked good in those shoes.  She looked just like what she was, he told her.  A cheap whore.
	And deep down, though she was not yet ready to accept it, she suspected he was right.	
	 He tugged on the pulley line, securing it to a butterfly bolt in the wall and she hung on tip-toe, calve muscles enticingly delineated, in the middle of the large cavernous hall.  Suddenly three large television screens mounted on rolling stands had begun to flicker vibrantly with pornographic images of women being gang-banged, whipped, strangled, tortured and horribly murdered.
	The three monitors had been positioned in a half-circle around her so that no matter where she might happen to look she would not be able to escape
the uninterrupted flow of savage misogynous images.  From the shadows
beyond the ring of flickering video glare Kessler watched the his captive’s
response.  After switching on the playback system he had stripped naked and was slowly stroking himself, preparing himself for the first vicious attack on his captive. 
	Kessler was extremely aroused by the tormented sounds coming from the porno tapes and the memories they triggered in him.  But he was even more aroused by the demented fear he now read on Julie Winnfried’s haunting features. 	Often, specially when starting a kill on his own without Kirkwood and Robeson, Kessler liked to show his victims a taste of what they might expect before the real shit began.  It never failed to yield this wonderfully chaotic result.
	Julie’s mournful brown eyes fled from one screen to another and back again.
	The images were horrid, scathing, invasive, mind-shattering.
	She’d never seen anything like them. And as much as she wished she could turn away she could do nothing but stare.
	Here was the awful truth that she’d been running away from since that night on Camille road so many years ago. Here was visual, unrefutable proof-positive of male cruelty unleashed on weak and helpless female, visual confirmation of male supremacy and female submission.
	On one screen a young girl hung by her ankles from a pulley line, arms cuffed by wrists to metal rings bolted in the stone floor.  Kessler and Robeson, their faces disguised in leather hoods,  were whipping her with heavy chains and Kirkwood would occasionally step up to her and push a taser into her bruised, broken tits. Blue bursting sparks would flash on her chain-link welted skin and she would scream raucously.
	The second television monitor showed a young blonde woman with paige-cut  bleached hair, chained to a black wooden frame on the ground on hands and knees.  Someone behind her was pushing a long thick steel spear into her asshole. Beads of sweat rolled down her pretty face.  Close-ups of the spear entering her were inter-cut with close-ups of her face as she screamed in tearful agony.  The camera panned back as the man behind her strained to push the seven-foot long spear through her trembling body. Another man in front of her kept shouting at her to keep her head up.  It may have been Robeson.  The spear was going all the way through her and she was spewing blood from her mouth and rectum, down the inside of her thighs...soon the weapon was bulging out her throat. Her knees sagged.  The man in front of her shot off on her face as the tip of the spear began to protrude from her parted lips.
	But it was the image on the third screen that pushed Julie’s mind way over the edge and beyond.
	A teenage girl hung from her neck by a black wire as Kessler sliced her
arms off with a machete.  It was Sheila, the first warehouse kill.
	Julie recognized the unfortunate girl on the video, remembered her coming into Walker’s a couple of years earlier.
	Suddenly the final connection was made and Julie’s long buried guilt over
Larissa’s death came tearing into her consciousness.  Now, finally, after so 
many years, Julie realized her life was going to end like Larissa’s, like Sheila’s, at the hands of brutal and ruthless woman-killers. It had taken almost twenty years for her to get here, to realize that this is where she had to finish, that there was nothing else for her but this.  Her life had finally come full cycle.
	The thought, the certainty of a long cruel sexual death broke her inside.  She felt her bladder let go.  A stream of spit spewed from her lips. Her eyes unfocused. Her head slid down as she sobbed, her chin against her neck.
	Julie’s first true moment of horror had arrived.
	“Ohh dear God,” she whimpered as she pissed herself, hot urine gushing down her long legs, into the high heel sandals Kessler had made her put on, and out the toe-holes to the floor. Now the smell of her own piss blended with the scent of her killer’s which still moistly gleamed on her cheeks and tits.
	Then she was vaguely aware of Kessler’s hand in her toussled hair gently but firmly pulling her head up.  He had walked up to her, into the ring of color and sound formed by the monitor screens.  A long single-tail black whip dangled from his free hand and trailed along the floor behind him like the vestigious
tail of some prehistoric demon.
	His eyes leered enjoying her moment of realization.
	“I know you, cunt,” he said softly. “I know a lot about you. More than you think I could possibly know. And what I don’t know I’m gonna find out in the next few days. In the end I will know everything.”
	It was as if he was staring into her deepest most private place, right into her soul, leaving her nowhere to hide, nowhere to retreat.  As he spoke, the awful sounds of the tapes, the cries of pain, the grunts of pleasure, the impact sounds of weapons on defenseless bitchflesh, provided a continuous accompaniment.
	“You’ll keep no secrets from me,” he continued.
	These were the sounds of unjust, unfair combat, brutal, armed man against naked, defenseless woman.
	Kessler’s hand moved off her hair and down her tense body to her crotch to play with her pubic curls and as he spoke his hand cupped her sex, his fingers curving into her warm slit still moist with urine.
	“See, Julie,” he continued, his voice detached, emotionless. “One reason I know you so well is that I’ve been watching you. Oh yes. I’ve been stalking you for almost a month. I know where you live.” His voice dropped darkly. “I saw you with your children.” Her lips quivered as his words fucked her mind. He was plainly enjoying her fear. “You’ve got such - pretty - children.” She whined and
shut her eyes tightly.
	“The other reason I know so much about you is I got a call a while back. From a guy in Harris State Penitentiary out in West Virginia.”
	“Hgggg?” she grunted, eyes blinking open. She wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Maybe her mind was going, unhinged, losing itself like it had outside in the graveyard when the dead girls had appeared, slipping away to escape this latest mind-twisting reality.
	Kessler’s strong fingers prodded into her forcing her up on her toes.
	Then, unexpectedly,  his hand left her body.
	She found herself yearning for it - needy for it.
	“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, drawing the single-tail braided lash up, running the long murderous tongue through the fingers of the hand he’d just had in her hole, stroking the whip with her pussy-juice as he spoke to her. “You heard me right. Seems like this guy at Harris State was up for parole.  He was there on a thirty year stretch for murder but seems like he’s been behaving himself real well. In fact, they’ve made him a trustee up there. They got him working in the library. Isn’t that incredible?”
	“He caught one of our little films a while back. Somebody sneaked it in to him of course,” he chuckled.  “I don’t think legally they could let those guys in the pen watch our productions.”
	He looked back over his left shoulder at the screen where Sheila now took the stabbing end of the machete in her chest.
	“His friends sneaked the tape in for him  - that one there, as a matter of fact. Bloody Snuff One. He watched it and after he watched it several times - he was very interested in joining up with our - organization.  Just like his friends figured.”
	She wondered how that could be possible.  How could this be happening?
If the man Kessler was talking about was Phillip Riemann how on earth would
Larissa’s killer be able to join Kessler and his men if he was serving a thirty year sentence for murder?
	Kessler brought his hand to his face, smelling the scent of her mixed with the leather of the whip, licking his fingers, returning them to her soft silky cunt, enjoying his victim’s obvious confusion.
	“He told me a story about two girls that went into some biker bar back in 1984.”
	“Ngghh--no -” Sheila gasped.  Kessler’s hand had begun working on her again - just like Riemann’s hand sixteen years earlier.
	“Oh yeah. Hm-hmm. Two cute little prick-teasing teenage cunts.”
	“Seems like he and his buddies did one of the little harlots real nice. Hung ‘er up on a fence and put a metal bar in her.”
	A twinge of arousal shot unbidden through Julie.
	The tip of Kessler’s hard arched aching cock pressed softly against her piss-wet thigh as he stepped closer, right in her face.
	“In fact,” he whispered almost conspiratorially. “That video reminded him of how they did that little whore.  Mm-hmm - yeah.  Come to think on it, it seems like that video had a bit of an impact on you too just now, didn’t it?”
	She stared at him blankly.
	“Didn’t it, pig?”
	“Y-yesss s-sir,” Julie whispered, fresh tears trickling from the corners of her big brown eyes.
	“I thought it did - I thought it would - which is why I showed it to you... Anyway, this guy from the penitentiary he tells me one of the two teenage bitches got away back then.  Yeah. How about that? One of them got away.  And it was thanks to her that he and his buddies got sent up. She ratted them out after some farmer found her friend’s body.”
	Kessler’s fingers gripped the lash hard now and his eyes glared into hers as his free hand retreated from her once more.
	Again she felt herself wanting it back, needing it.
	“So he told me that he would be real eager to catch up with that little cunt when he gets out. Real eager. And being the helpful guy that I am I told him maybe he and I could come to an understanding. See this guy’s friends - the ones who got him the tape - have big money.  They’d like to get involved in my video business but they can’t do that directly because of their - official reputations.  They need a middle man. He told me he was eager to oblige them and be a kind of - liason.  His people could make my video business even more lucrative and guarantee no interference from law enforcement. So I told him it sounded real good to me and that, to cement the deal, if he wanted, I would track down the squealing bitch that put him in prison. Track her down and bring her in so that we could all work on her, hell maybe even make a video with her. Well - he really liked the idea.”
	“Are you with me so far, pig?” he asked leering meanly.
	“Y-yess - sir...”
	“So I did a little research after his call and guess what I came up with?”
	He let the whip, which he’d coiled in the hand he’d been caressing her with, unfurl, its tip sliding to the floor.
	On the monitor screens the females screamed as they were viciously
tortured.  The screen that had shown Sheila’s final moments had briefly gone black and then come back on.  A young girl who couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old with beautiful lustrous jet black hair was being raised up off the floor by her ankles to hang upside down naked, crying and shrieking.  Hooded men were circling around her with short spears.
	“I found out that the little teenage slut my friend in prison was interested in, had grown up, gotten married and moved to Seabrook. Can you fucking beat that? She was right here! Right in our own little hunting ground.  Right in our fucking back yard. Un-fucking-believable.”
	Kessler began to move around her, the lash dragging along the floor behind him.
	On the screen the hooded men thrust their spears into the child’s belly. Her scream was shrill and distorted.  Julie’s eyes blurred with tears and she tried to look away.  Someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s sweetheart had been massacred by these heartless men. An innocent life, many innocent lives, had been taken, right here in this dark building, in the confines of these old brick walls - all
for sex and money - for the pleasure of the killers.
	“So I had Bill and Stan check this slut out -” Kessler continued. “ - make sure she was good video material - Shit.  Turns out they knew her real well.  Seems like they had breakfast or lunch at the place where she worked almost every day. Can you fucking beat that?”
	Julie’s arms were already hurting from being stretched upward and her hands had started going numb.
	“‘Course she wasn’t a teenager any more. She was a married woman with two kids.”	
	After the slaughter of the thirteen year old girl two of the monitor screens went dark.  Only one remained.
	“It made things a little more complicated for me.” Kessler continued. “But also more interesting. Mmm, so much more interesting.”
	Kessler stopped moving. He was behind her and slightly to one side.
	He reached out and ran his fingertips down her taut, sweat-moist flank.
	She tried to look back at him over her shoulder and arm but it was impossible. He had obviously positioned himself where she would not see the blows coming. She could hear his bare feet pad softly against the stone floor as he stepped back, his hand withdrawing.
	 He spread his legs apart assuming a combative stance.
	“We know who that little teenage slut my friend was talking about is, don’t we?” Kessler asked, his voice low and mean.
	“Don’t we, cunt?”
	“Y-y-yesssirr...”
	“We know that little cunt was you, Julie Winnfried, formerly Julie Stevens of Daletown, Virginia. And here you are, all grown up, about to feel a single-tail leather whip on your meat - possibly for the first fucking time in your worthless life.”
	“It will be your first time, won’t it, slut?” Kessler asked after a moment.
	“Yes, sir,” she answered softly.	
	Even though she’d endured other kinds of violence from men before she’d never been whipped.  She’d dreamed about it and longed for it. But it had never
happened.
	Kessler’s voice and the sound of the lash slithering on the floor beside him had mesmerized her and though she had been looking at the lone flickering monitor screen she had not really seen it. Now she realized she knew the girl who was being strangled there, hung by her neck on a stretch of rope while straddling a hooded man who fucked her and tugged on the rope.  Her arms were bound behind her and she was being made to bounce vigorously up and down on the man’s big shaft, crying pitifully...she was fifteen year old Molly Benson, the cheerleader that had disappeared from Seabrook last year.
	Julie whimpered and her knees felt weak. The weight of her body tugged on the wrist-cuffs. She thought she might piss herself again but her bladder was drained and all that remained was a fluttering sensation.
	She heard Kessler breathing heavily behind her and knew that the whip would soon be sent striking down on her - she needed it to come - needed not to
think anymore but to feel.
	She knew the man that Kessler had spoken to at Harris State could only be Riemann.  Was it possible that powerful influential men would be able to
get the killer out of prison and involved with Kessler’s gang?  The idea was
monstrous.  She was completely overwhelmed by the idea that she would be face to face with Larissa’s killer again, here in this squalid place. It was just too much for her to handle.
	She wanted the whipping to begin so that she her mind would be cleared
by the pain.
	Kessler did not make her wait much longer.
	Behind her she heard the sharp wind-slicing whistle of the lash as the killer raised it quickly off the floor to strike.
	
(Whipping a woman is one way of marking her as yours, of slashing your demanding violence across her soft yielding body.  Watching the way she responds to each blow, timing each stroke, making each one count in its own special way is the sadist’s highest pleasure.  The harsh explosive sound of  a cracking lash and the  ensuing cry of pain of your victim is sacred ritual music, primal and enticing.  The whipping is the first step in the long dance between male predator and female prey.  It is intimate and savage, brutally passionate. It makes it clear to the captive female that her life is no longer hers, that she is no longer in control of anything, that she is and will always be victim, that her pain and suffering are yours to enjoy, fully, deeply.  The whip is phallic power and sheer control. The whip is the essential tool of bitch-mastery.)
	
	The single-tail braided lash struck Julie across the back of her thighs, just above her knees, hard. The sensation was an overload to her already stressed mind and nervous system and she jerked tautly in her bondage, suddenly stiff, a choked off cry from her pretty wide-lipped mouth as heat and pain shot through her and her mind was thankfully emptied of all questions.
	Kessler smiled, drew back and struck again.
	This was between him and this pretty bitch. There were no cameras rolling now. This was intimate, personal. He was gonna get the most he could out of Julie before the other men he would be sharing her with got theirs.
	He sliced the lash across her waist, wrapping it around her wide strong hips making her yell and sob. The memory of the way she’d kissed him back outside earlier made his cock full and hard. He knew this bitch had never in her life felt the venomous heat of the lash and for him it was like a virgin fuck, like walking on a wide open field in winter and leaving ugly boot-prints in the fresh snow.  He looked forward to fucking this woman, fucking her violently, raping her, sodomizing her, after covering her with searing hot welts.
	“This is what you’re gonna get from here on in,” he told her. “ - this and worse.” 
	He slashed down across her sloping back, from the shoulders to the sensitive flesh just above her asscheeks leaving fierce red marks streaking from one side to the other.
	He clenched his jaw and concentrated slicing down now across her soft
asscheeks and upper thighs.
	Her meaty buttocks squeezed together as he struck them.
	It made him smile.
	He was definitely gonna enjoy putting his cock between those firm flesh slabs.
	Julie danced spastically to the slashing attack, twisted from left to right,
dangled on the chain by her wrists, raising her sandal-shod feet off the floor, whining then crying out in response. She would alternately lift her face to the
ceiling, her head pressing against the upstretched arms as she winced and
shouted her pain, then her head would topple in defeat, her hair falling over her eyes and cheeks until another blow would force her to change positions.
	Now and then a savage cut would make her jerk her thigh upward involuntarily. After that happened three times, first her left thigh then her right, then her left in response to the heatflash cut of the whip across her hips, making her look like a demented baton girl in a fourth of July parade Kessler shouted at her.
	“Keep both feet on the floor, you stupid slut!”
	She tried to obey but he struck harder and harder knowingly, trying to make her body respond.  A sharp stinging cut that tore into her flank and drew a throaty scream from her finally did the trick and her left thigh jumped up as if
pulled by a puppetmaster’s string.
	“Did you hear me?” Kessler shouted at her “I said keep both fucking feet on the floor!”
	And again he lashed out enjoying the conflicting reactions in her to obey
and respond to the striking lash.
	After that it took fifteen whistling skin-ripping strokes before the sadistic killer finally got his victim to repeat the involuntary upward flinching motion of her welt-streaked thigh.
	He smiled again, triumphantly for a brief instant, a manic victorious smile and then his words tore into her like his lash had just done.
	“You stinking WHORE! Worthless slimy SLUT! It’s quite obvious you can’t follow a simple command can you? CAN YOU?”
	“N-no - I - I - mean -”
	“Shut the fuck up and turn around.  You hear me?  Turn around and face me. I’m gonna whip your filthy fucking tits.”
	“No! Pleeeease! I - c-can’t -”
	“Yes you can, you fucking piece of shit. We’re just getting started here...this is nothing compared to what’s coming to you in the next couple of days. C’mon! Turn around! NOW!”
	Slowly, reluctantly Julie swung all the way around to face her tormentor, the chain that held her wrists above her clattering against the metal bar the pulley hung from.
	“Spread those fucking legs wide,” he ordered.
	“...pleease...”
	“I said, spread ‘em!”
	Kessler watched her as she sobbed softly, tears streaming off her wet cheeks.  Sweat beaded and dripped off her smooth olive toned skin.  She was fetching, bewitching in her naked torment - full-titted, slender, almost lanky but with plenty of meat on her in all the right places. It was hard to believe her firm body had endured two pregnancies.  She moved her legs apart and tiny sweat drops glistened as they rolled down her bare muff.  The fuck-me sandals scraped over the stone floor as she opened herself for him, opened wide until he could make out the pinkish red lips of her cunt nestled in the soft triangle of meat between her whip-welted thighs.  He enjoyed the way the muscles in her legs moved and rippled as her weight shifted, her ribs prominent on her chest, her tits plump and juicy like twin bowls of custard.  Through all this she kept her eyes downcast as he’d instructed her to do out in the graveyard.
	“Wider, bitch,”  Kessler told her. “Wide as you can get ‘em.”
	Eventually her long legs formed a wide stiff upside down ‘V’ and her toes pressed against the sandals, visibly cramped with pressure and strain.
	Slowly, as he looked at his victim, Kessler masturbated, working his cock with steady, energetic pumping movements of his free hand.  This, after all, was one of his favorite positions to put a slave in and he hardly ever enjoyed such extended one-on-one time to use it.  She stood there vulnerable but strong, breathing short shallow breaths, waiting for the inevitable downbeat. He worked himself, licked his lips, his eyes slitted with lust.
	After a few moments of deep enjoyment he stopped, drew the lash back and took aim.
	The first hot stinging whapp of the lash tore across her upper chest, right across both tits and Julie screamed and tried to swing around, her wide-spread legs anchoring her awkwardly.
	“Don’t you EVEN think about turning away from me!” Kessler roared and swung the single-tail lash across his defenseless captive’s dangling paps.
	She raised her face and pleaded with him wide-eyed as he swung again.
	“Keep your fucking eyes on the ground, pig!” he shouted.
	Her screams came from a deep well of energy inside her, some new source he’d just struck as he flogged her pretty tits.	
	She hung her head and her hips thrust forward as if she meant to push her pussy in the way of the whip too. Gobs of spittle drooled from her lips as she sobbed, white foam spattered by the harshly slashing blows of Kessler’s lash. Her saliva ran down her belly into her bush and dripped off her cunt as he swung,
back and forth, tearing stripe after stripe into his bitch’s tit-globes.  He jerked off again, now more eagerly, as he breast-whipped the helpless woman. Well placed, well aimed cuts tore at her flushed swollen nipple buds as she sobbed and yelled.
It was Kessler’s intention to hurt her, to mark her with fierce red stripes, to put her in her place, to whittle away at her sanity.
	Julie bit her lip and cried.
	Her head flew backward.
	Her suffering was nearly intolerable.
	Her pain was a repetitive searing.  It felt like each blow was taking a chunk of titmeat off her, a piece of her, and she was afraid to look down at herself and see her breasts in dangling strips.  She shut her eyes tightly and braced herself for 
the onslaught knowing there was no way out but to feel it, to take it, to give
this animal what he wanted. She asked herself why - why did men enjoy this?
why did they want to beat and hurt, punish, own, destroy?  The tendons in her
legs quivered and muscle cramps in her thighs made her position nearly unbearable but still she held on and held on and held on, taking it, sobbing, screaming, knowing that there was no other way.  This was the place she needed to arrive at, this place of surrender and pain, this place so deep inside her she could not even understand it.
	She shuddered and sobbed loudly as the flashing whip moved down her belly and nipped at her mons then at her thighs then at the knees, her splayed
legs trembling.  Then it would go back upward, cut after cut, sibilant and
vicious, placing red-lined bites on her already welted titmeat.  Each time it
went downward it would go lower then return upward. Finally the whip
tore at her ankles and the exposed tops of her feet. It tore the strap off the right sandal and wrapped around her kicking legs.  She tried to move but couldn’t manage it.  Her feet wiggled under the sharp cuts. The position she was in had locked her muscles in painful stasis.  Again the whip moved up following each lovely leg up to the triangle of cuntmeat, teasing her cuntlips.
	“Agh!uh!oh!yhh!” she cried mindlessly.
	And upward went the lash, swishing back and forth loudly, cracking like hot summer thunder across her belly and back to her swollen nipples, leaving dark
searing cuts that did not bleed but which swelled into purple thin-line bruises.
	“Ngghh!Yghhh! Owwwhhh!”
	And then suddenly it ceased.
	Still she flinched, groaned, drops of sweat spilling off her and down her
beaten skin, her head hanging, she nearly unconscious.
	“Ugh!nnhh!mmgg!”
	She kept on moving reflexively as if she was still being whipped for a good
fifteen seconds as Kessler watched, fascinated with the effect of pain on this female’s body, jerking off as he took in the incredible vision.
	Each victim took the whip in a different way, with different responses.  
	Some women were tremendously sexy when they were in agony.
	Julie was definitely one of them.
	It was clear to Kessler that this pretty bitch was meant for suffering. 	Watching her hanging there now intermittently moving with slightly less energy, rattling the chain from which she hung, his whipmarks all over the front of her body from her feet to her neck, he realized she looked as if she was being fucked.
	“Mmg...ahhgg...nnnn...” she grunted weakly finally going still, breathing deeply, her head moving from side to side.
	Kessler dropped the whip and reached up to release her wrist-cuffs from the suspension chain.
	As he did so she slid forward against him.
	He lifted her effortlessly, cradling her in his strong arms.
	Her head hung backward, her soft hair draped over his forearm, and her eyes were glassy. Her body was hot and feverish from the beating.  He could smell the leather of his whip on her. It had singed her flesh, seared itself into her.
	Walking slowly he carried her past a doorway on the distant end of the large warehouse.
	The odd room had been designed to look like a bedroom in an upscale hotel, with sleek modern furniture, mirrors, expensive bed-side tables and lamps. Now that the video lights were off the room was in shadows.  Light came in from the doorway that led back into the warehouse and also from recessed lights in the 
ceiling that were on faders turned down very low.
	Gently, Kessler laid Julie on the smooth deep-blue satin sheets.
	They were fresh sheets, the previous ones having been buried out in the graveyard, streaked and splotched with dark girlblood.  The whole room in fact had been cleaned recently, probably by Robeson, who, of the three killers, was the most prone to straighten up, especially after the savage three or four day slaughter orgies.
	The wall next to the bed was a mirror from ceiling to floor and it reflected
the shadowy images of their bodies.
	She lay there weakly, looking up at him.
	He leaned over her and kissed her, holding her face with one hand.
	“I’m going to eat you, Julie. Then I’m going to put my cock inside you, ” he said softly as he pulled back.
	Her eyes glistened sadly. There was no struggle left in her.
	He climbed on to the bed, his weight shifting the mattress, his strong hands tracing the whipped skin of her lower belly, moving down to pry her welted thighs apart, kneeling between them.  He loved the feel of flogged woman-flesh, hot and ridged, the blood pulsing just underneath the bruised meat.
	His head dipped down, like a Bengal tiger about to drink from a stream.
	He could see where the whip had sliced at her pussy-lips and left dark reddish-violet marks.  Now he traced the wounds with his moist mouth.
	She felt his hot tongue dart upward from the bottom of her slit to the very top. He licked her and kissed her down there, like a lover would. He teased her with his mouth sparking deep female arousal.  His fingers took her coral-hued pussy lips and opened them, spreading them apart as he licked her swollen clit. She quivered responsively and sighed.
	“Aahhh,” he moaned as he pushed his whole face into her, her cunt lips like wet velvet against his cheeks and chin.
	He growled as he licked and nibbled at the tender girl-flesh, the salty sea-weedy taste of her rousing him sensuously. It excited him deeply to know that he was going to hurt this tender place in her over the next few days, hurt it, pierce it, cut it, whip it, burn it - fill it as it had never been and would never again be filled.
	She was wet for him, dripping, her body aching and burning from the violent whipping.
	He began to bite her, to sink his teeth into her as his finger prodded into her lovehole. Alternately he would lick her clit and bite her bare mons.
	Yeah. He and the others were gonna punish this pretty little pussy real bad.
	His tongue moved rapidly up and down her slit as his finger thrust in and out.
	Real fucking bad.
	She reached up with both hands to hang on to the ornate headboard her legs pulling back, raised off the bed, sandaled feet pointed at the ceiling.  Her head twisted to the left pressing against the soft pillow and through slitted eyes she could see the reflection on the mirror-wall.  She watched his head thrusting up and down into her crotch and his tongue darting all over the moist flesh and his strong hand jabbing his index finger deep into her. It was like watching a hungry lion tearing into a kill. Gushing creamy fluid flowed from her, smeared his lips and cheeks.
	“Nggggg!” she cried out.
	She watched herself in the mirror, slutty sandals pointing upward, her legs wide to receive the cunt-eating, her eyes half closed, her skin welted from the strokes of Kessler’s whip. There was no escaping it. She was a worthless whore, just like he’d said, giving herself up to this man she’d watched along with his partners murdering innocent women in the snuff videos. He’d been right about her. She was totally worthless.
	His hands gripped her thighs up by the knees splitting her wide open as he now fucked her with his tongue and bit her, ate her and drank her.  He rubbed his whole face in her cunt until he was smeared with its salty stink.  Then again his finger poked into her now hot and gushy sexmouth as his tongue aggressively
lapped her throbbing clit.  He sucked and bit her clit.  He pushed two, three, four fingers into her cunt...then almost his whole hand, prying her open...working her clit in his eager mouth...feeling the orgasm about to explode in her as she hung on to the headboard tight, groaning, her hands gripping the headboard.
	Then cruelly he stopped.
	She looked up to see him staring hatefully at her.                      
	“You’re such filth,” he told her, putting his cock to her slit, pushing the head of his hard shaft slightly into her wet pulsing cunt-hole. His hands gripped her hip bones.
	She could still feel his mouth on her, her sex still swollen and pulsing.
	“You want this, am I right?”
	His hands travelled slowly back up to seize both of her whipped tit-mounds hard, to hold her by her tits as he thrust deep into her.
	“...u-ugggggghhh -Yes - sir - oh God, yes -” she whispered.
	“Yes, you do...you want it bad...you goddamn scumbag. You’ve always wanted it - haven’t you?”
	“Ohhhhh yessssirr...”
	“Yeahh - just like the guy up at Harris State said....worthless fucking cunt whore...”
	The flickering memory of Riemann’s hateful eyes staring her down while his hand crudely worked her under the tabletop in the prison meeting room made Julie shiver expectantly.  How was it possible that her past had caught up with her this way, so unexpectedly?  She tried not to think - gave herself instead to the overwhelming sensation of the killer’s cock deep inside her.
	“You belong to me now, Julie.” Kessler told her as he leaned down over her, his powerful arms on either side of her boxing her in, his hands on the sheets.
	“Your life is mine to play with. To do with as I see fit.”
	Slowly he pushed his cock up into her pussy.  She was soaking wet and warm for him.
	“Very nice,” he commented looking down into her crying face.
	“Real nice,” he groaned as his erection slid into the whipped woman under him almost to the hilt.
	She began to cry plaintively.
	Kessler liked to fuck a woman when she was crying.
	He filled her and began to thrust into her slowly, decisively, putting his hands on her whipped shoulders, putting his whole weight down into his punished 
sobbing female.  Gradually, as he began to fuck her in earnest, his hands moved to her neck to choke her.
	As she gasped for air he spit in her open mouth then bit her cheeks and the top of her neck just below her right ear hard, just short of drawing blood, making her squeal helplessly. He bit her ear and pinched her nipples.
	He sealed his lips over hers as he pounded her into the bed, slam-fucked her violently while she whined under him.  Her hot whipped flesh cushioned his downthrusts deliciously.
	He rose up and leaned on one arm while he slapped her face three times, viciously, then he slammed down on her to kiss her and bite her face and spit on her and choked her again.	
	After he fucked her pussy for a while he rose up into a crouching position, crawled over her and squatted on her face pushing his asshole down into her lips.
	“Lick me, slut,” he snarled. “Lick my asshole.”
	His strong feet were arched on the pillow on either side of her head, tangled in her hair as she obeyed. He reached out to steady himself holding on to the expensive headboard with both hands, grinding his rump down into her face. The bed creaked under them. He looked at the mirror to watch himself sitting on his whipped slave’s face. Moaning and gasping, she thrust her moist tongue into his sweaty butthole and lapped at his balls. He rubbed his cock on her face and grabbed her by her head as he slid down to fuck her again.  This time he was vicious. He slammed into her lovelessly, brutally.  As he drove into her she cupped her hands around her tits and gripped her stiff red whip-marked nippleflesh.
	“Yeahh,” he grunted pistoning into her. It was incredibly pleasurable to fuck a female he knew he would soon viciously torture, mutilate and destroy.
	Then his hands balled up into fists.
	“Filthy bitch,” he growled and began to punch her belly and sides.
	The first few blows surprised her,winded her and she choked brokenly for air.
	He beat her while he fucked her occasionally catching a glimpse of himself arched over his victim aggresively in the mirror-wall.
	He slammed his fists into her tits and shoulders and ribs.
	“Whore! Cunt!” he growled, enraged, his eyes fierce, his lip twisted in an ugly snarl.
	“We’re gonna kill you, bitch!” he shouted down at her.
	She looked up wide-eyed with terror trying to shield herself from his blows.
	“Put your hands down, you stupid shit!” he shouted. “Put ‘em down!”
	When she did so he began to slap her face, loud open-handed slaps, fifteen of them, almost knocking her out.  At first, her hands clutched the sheets as he did so. Then, near the end of the face-beating, she let go and just lay there.
	He stopped for a moment, breathing hard then slapped her again with all his strength, rising up off her, standing on the bed and reaching down to pull her up by her hair into a kneeling position.
	He pushed his huge cock up into her beaten, flushed face. Blood trickled from a cut in her lip.
	“I wanna fuck your mouth, pig,” he grunted.
	In the mirror his powerful body seemed like a giant coil of flesh, wound tight, ready to spring.  The glow of the recessed lights in the ceiling shone on Julie’s face and eyes as she was hauled forward to the manmeat  she must  please, to the glistening muscular body of her male owner.
	Dazed, her spirit broken, Julie let him do whatever he wanted with her.  She was becoming what he knew she could become, a fuck-puppet with no shame, no will and no strength.
	He grabbed her head with both hands and slid into her open mouth.
	“Look at me,” he whispered fiercely.
	He stared down at her pretty face stretched wide to accomodate
his big dick, a sardonic grin of twisted pleasure on his face, as her brown doe
eyes stared back, drained, lifeless, weak.
	His hands slid down the sides of her sweaty face and he hooked his
thumbs in her lips as he fucked her mouth, opening her wider to push down into her throat and choke her with his big cock, pulling her up into him, triggering her gag reflex, his fingers gripping her distended lips harshly.
	“...aa-ag-gghhhh...” she sputtered and he chuckled forcing himself deeper down her gullet-hole.
	........Julie’s mind slid away to a long ago cloudy day.  It was Daletown.  She was at Firewood Lake, where every year her parents rented the vacation house.  She was only twelve and her parents had gone into town to get groceries leaving her asleep in the bedroom of the cabin-like structure.  She awoke to the distant sound of thunder. ‘We’ll be right back, Sweetie,’ a note on the bedside table said. It was in her mom’s handwriting. Sweetie was alone.  A crow cawed as it flew past her window.  She rose from the bed and was possesed with the unexplainable need to be completely naked.  Thunder boomed in the distance as she slid out of her white t-shirt and pink gym shorts to look at herself in the mirror of the dresser by the door.  The house smelled of old pinewood. Mmm.  She ran her hands slowly and gingerly down her sweet smelling naked girl-child’s body and felt herself tingle. She was still half asleep, and nothing seemed solid.  The lightning flashes frightened her as they came closer to the lake but she stood there in front of the mirror, looking at herself, touching herself in the place Riemann would touch only five years later in the prison visiting room. A boom of thunder shook the house and she bit her lip and moaned, squeezing the still almost hairless mound of girlmeat between her thighs, the same warm juicy girlmeat Kessler would prod with his hot tongue twenty one years later.  Her friend from down the street, Larissa,  had told her that men would put their peepees in there and push them all the way in.  Julie couldn’t believe that.  It was so nasty...so - gross!  Larissa had told her she’d seen pictures in a magazine in a box her father had in the attic.  The women were tied up in chains and the men were putting their peepees into their faces and mouths and down there...down there which tingled as she touched herself and thought about it. To be helpless and waiting...waiting...she went up on her little toes and then fell back on her heels as lightning flashed and boomed almost simultaneously...a shadow stood over her in the mirror...the room slid into shadows...a cruel vicious face was staring down at her into her eyes and into her soul...into her empty soul 
	...and she was back at the Vanner warehouse in the terrible reality of her rape.  Only in her mind she was still just a frail twelve year old, a helpless child in the hands of a masterful bitch-killer.
	Kessler fucked his dazed victim’s face roughly, holding her by her cheek with one hand and by her hair with the other.  He was ramming himself down
her throat, enjoying the sensations her moist tongue and the ridged roof of her mouth provoked on his phallus. He could see the bitch was slowly losing her mind and he bared his teeth like an animal in deep primal enjoyment of the psychological harm the rape was causing her. His mouth watered as he felt the pressure of her throat and wind-pipe against his hard manmeat when he slid down deep. Her moaning and gagging noises vibrated on his dick and balls teasingly, maintaining his enormous erection, the veins standing out in knots on his shaft. He glanced sideways into the mirrored wall, voyeur as well as perpetrator, watching himself bearing down on the whip-welt marked body of his female captive.  The image made him harder and more vicious. He didn’t know which of the two he enjoyed most...destroying their bodies or destroying their minds.
	...in front of the cabin mirror Sweetie slid down to her knees on an Indian throw-rug. Music drifted in from the living room as rain began to patter against the walls and windows. The Brady Bunch was on and the lame theme song sparkled and glittered all around her...the story of a man named Brady...and the faces spinning around each in their own quadrant...and two girls just like her mother...the youngest one in curls.  
	The dark demon was standing over her, the walls were falling away.
	And out in the storming forest her children, awakened from their beds in the middle of the storm, were running, screaming, being chased by some elemental beast with claws and the body of a horse. It was fast and strong and its body was thick with dark fur.
	Little Billy and Sandra, screaming for her, after the Seabrook house had ripped open like some exploding fairy-tale, paper-mache pumpkin.
	“Mommy! Mommy!”
	They couldn’t see she was just like them, another child running through the woods alongside them in the rain, naked, terrified. 
	...with some effort she tried to stay focused as now Kessler rubbed his huge prick all over her face and hair, on her cheeks and forehead.  The pungent smell of him filled her nostrils.  He pulled her forward by her hair and pushed his balls against her soft mouth.
	...out there, in the mystery woods outside the Vanner warehouse, the beast was catching up to the children. It was about to trample them, perhaps crush them under its hideous weight and she could do nothing but watch.  It was already breathing down Billy’s neck, licking at his naked back with its sandpaper-rough tongue as he screamed, reaching with its long sharp claws to grab him by his blonde little head and pull him up.  It roared angrily and dug its white clawnails into Billy’s little body as he screamed.
	Kessler watched with fascination as Julie’s face betrayed some deep
psychotic terror.  Her mouth was trying to form words.  He rubbed the tip of his cock on her moving lips, slowly, languidly back and forth.
	...The beast slammed little Billy against a tree, crushing his ribcage, letting him fall to the ground, squatting over him, a snake like tentacle emerging from its belly.  Blood poured from the holes in his sides left by the beast’s claws.
	“M-momma...ggha...aaa...” Billy groaned.
	He had cried so much that first day she’d left him off at school it just broke her heart.  But the teachers said it would be alright.  ‘It’ll be ok, Mrs. Winnfried.
He’ll get used to it. We’ll take care of him. We’ll look after him.’
	But they hadn’t looked after him and it wasn’t alright. It would never be alright because the beast’s tentacle was wrapping around her first born’s little neck and squeezing, squeezing hard as the beast neighed and stamped its hoofed feet like a mad bull. It was killing her boy, her little frail broken blonde boy.
	She couldn’t bear to watch but she had no choice and she stood there naked in the rain, cold droplets pouring down through the boughs, bouncing off the pine needles and on to her pale bare skin and pink-red, fear-stiff nipples, she sobbing as her little boy was butchered before her eyes. And when his little face was purple and he no longer breathed the creature reared back and drove his horned head into the boy’s belly gouging into his guts, killing him brutally, instantly, then dropping his lifeless carcass on the forest ground and swiveling around to face her as she wailed hysterically.
	“Now the other one...” it said, staring into her soul.
	“...the other one you stupid whore,” Kessler ordered moving Julie’s face
from one testicle to the other, making the distracted slut suck and lick his 
tingling, dangling, overfull genital sacs.  Whaetever was going on in her fucked up head was totally absorbing her, taking her right to the razor edge of madness.  Kessler relished the thought.  There was something incredibly rewarding in knowing he was responsible for the blank mindless stares or the whimpering, gasping, stammering terror his victims often displayed in the course of the violence and extreme suffering he unleashed upon them. He slammed his cock down her throat and held it in her cutting off her breathing, watching her go pale and stare wide-eyed, blank-faced upward into his face.
	...Little Sandra is running through the forest, wet pine needles stabbing her bare feet, branches swatting at her thighs and chest.  She is naked. She is running and screaming and crying for her momma.  She has seen the beast kill her little brother. The sky is  dark, sparked with intermittent blue crashes of thunder and lightning, cold rain falling in thick sheets.  The beast chases after little Sandra, dragging Julie in its hideous tentacle which is wrapped around her waist...Distorted television music jangles all around them.  Julie can’t breathe, the tentacle snakes around her hips, up between her legs, and rises up to clutch her neck and force its way into her mouth, cutting off any possibility of language and reason, staving off breath and sanity.  Julie’s bare feet drag along the wet muddy floor of the forest... Julie’s little girl Sandra comes to a sudden clearing.  There are men huddled in the tall grass. Soldiers. Their backs are turned to the forest. The beast trots up to the edge of the trees and stops.  Its breath makes smouldering clouds, snot trickles from its snout, it bares its teeth but does not emerge into the clearing.  Sandra is running toward the men, crying for help. The men rise and turn to face her. The beast releases Julie and she slumps to the ground and crawls out of the woods into the clearing.  The rain is falling thick and heavy now into the hard ground.  Julie rises up on her knees just in time to see the men raise their weapons.  They are too far for her to see the expression on their faces but she can sense their ferocity and aggression.  She wants to warn Sandra to stop, to turn back but her voice is stifled, unresponsive. Suddenly the guns erupt loudly. White flashes of heat explode from them. Through the sound of the rain Julie hears the crackle of automatic fire.  Sandra is lifted off her feet as the bullets pound into her little body exploding her shattered body into the tall grass, silencing her weepy little cries. Julie tries to scream but can’t make any sound. She crawls painfully toward the place where Sandra has fallen.  The soldiers are moving toward her.  As the men come closer she sees their faces.  They are hideous snarling demons.  They reach the little girl first.  Shouting triumphantly one of them lifts Sandra’s nude dead body up by an ankle to show it to the wailing mother. Bleeding holes trail from the child’s head to her legs.  Entrails spill from her belly which has been torn open.  Another soldier approaches Julie.  He is a tall dark shadow against the raging purple sky. 	
	He raises his weapon.
	“Open wide for chunky!” he jeers as he brings the gun’s still smoking barrel to her face.
	“That’s right,” he growls pushing the weapon into her lips.
	“Good bitch...That’s the gun that just blasted your little girl...eat it nice...”
	“...momma...” Sandra says weakly, hanging upside down from the grip of one of the demon soldiers.
	She is still alive, Julie thinks with horror as the hot metal fills her own
throat. Oh dear Jesus she is still alive!
	The men laugh and jeer.
	“...good bitch...” Kessler grunts, fucking Julie’s throat with violent thrusts of his hips, clutching her head in his hands by her ears.  The bitch has lost her
mind and the killer is deep in his element, feeling the hot sperm coming up in his swollen balls, watching himself fuck her face in the mirror, he standing on the bed, the mattress creaking as he pounds into her throat, her hands lying open
at her sides, her head tilted back and her lost eyes looking up at him glassily.
	...The soldiers drag the whimpering child to the edge of a dirt road on the outskirts of the clearing.  Julie watches them squirming out of their heavy backpacks, putting their weapons on the ground, pushing down their pants.  They are eager and there is violence in their eagerness. The rain is coming down quietly and steadily now and in the distance there is a roar.  A squadron of fighter jets flies over them.  The forest explodes in napalm flames. The guarding soldier keeps his gun in Julie’s mouth while he watches the others with sidelong glances, his bloodshot inhuman eyes returning occasionally to her to check on her.  Incredibly the soldiers begin to rape the dying child by the dirt road in the rain.  From the edge of the burning woods the beast lets out a load roaring howl.  The men have cheated it of its kill but it knows better than to challenge them and their terrible weapons. All the soldiers have a go at Sandra’s bullet riddled body.  They thrust their dirty swollen cocks into her little virgin pussy and her little asshole laughing and joking, kicking the child in her ribs to see if she still lives, shooting their cum deep in her blasted out guts. The soldier that has the gun in Julie’s throat has pulled out his slimy prick to jerk off as he watches them.  His excitement is more intense as the rape goes on and on.  He drools and growls and then he turns to her. Behind him she sees one of the soldiers take a pistol from his pack and stand over Sandra.  The soldiers are finished with the wasted child and there is nothing left for the executioner but to pull the trigger. Overhead the planes sweep by again. The little girls body twitches slightly as the bullet explodes her head open. Flames blossom from the jungle tearing vines and palms and trees to shreds.  The beast howls dementedly and scurries into the underbrush.
	“...and now its your turn, Julie,” the demon-soldier tells her.
	He is smiling. Sperm spills from his cock between his dirty fingers.
	“Aahhh,” he grunts.
	“Here it is...”	
	She hears the metal click of the weapon’s hammer sliding back...instead of moving away she pushes herself forward, jamming the hard metal in her throat
as the soldier squeezes the trigger...After all, now that both her children are dead there is no reason for her to go on living.
	“...here it is...” Kessler growls softly.  Incredibly he watches Julie thrust herself on his cock as he cums and his jism spurts into the back of her throat, hot deep, pleasurable spurts which fill her mouth and overspill her lips, her glassy eyes staring, unseeing.  He continues to fuck her throat as sperm drips down her neck and tits on to the satin sheets and soon his cock is hard erect and ready for more.
	He pulls out of her mouth and steps back off the bed pulling her by her
hair, swinging her around until she faces away from him, his back to the mirrored wall.
	“Bend over, pig,” he orders.
	...the blast of the gun blows the back of Sweetie’s head clean off and she staggers backward into the tall wet grass. The soldiers stand over her.
	“Whore’s dead,” one of them snarls.
	The rain has died down to a quiet rustling trickle.
	The demon soldiers’ eyes rove hungrily over the naked woman.  
	Her hot brains are smeared on the ground, splattering away from her
wide-eyed face.
	“Still looks fine...”
	“Let’s buttfuck her.”
	“Shit, yeah. Send ‘er to hell with a good load’a scum up her ass.”
	They roll her over and kick her legs open. They play scissors, paper and rock to see who goes first.  From the edge of the woods the beast watches them.
When they are gone he will go out to the clearing and get the bitch and the girl.
He will drag their slaughtered bodies as well as that of the little boy back to his lair, his nest in the deep murky forest, and he will feast.  For now he is content to 
watch the men crouch down and fuck the lifeless carcass.  His tentacles grow fat with thick lustblood.
	Kessler places his cock up against Julie’s pink rectum between her whipcut
asscheeks. He spits on it and pushes it against her tiny infolded opening. The fat red crown of his manmeat is flushed and swollen.  His victim waits inertly, soundless, robbed of all energy, of all humanity, kneeling and waiting for him. He grips her hips, his fingers gouging her whipped flesh. His jaw is clenced, teeth bared, eyes slitted.
	“Whore,” he snarls and pushes his cock into her asshole, pushes forward,
jamming himself into the beaten defeated female.
	We won’t be back soon, Sweetie, the voice inside her says. Not at all.  As a matter of fact, we may never come back. You’re on your own now.
	She struggles to hold on, feeling Kessler’s massive cockspear breaking her, splitting her open.
	Images of the clearing and the demon soldiers and the swooping fighter jets flash through her mind then fade as his prick scrapes in and out of her shithole.
	Kessler grips her by her long silky hair, his other hand still on her hip and he pumps in and out of her going deep into her guts, ramming up against shitmuck inside her, pulling out almost all the way, the thick crud-smeared crown of his prick splitting her wide and making her cry as it exits and re-enters dripping faeces down her whipped thighs.
	Sweetie’s getting it up the back door good, the fucking little bitch, the goddamn little prickteasing cunt. Just what she deserves.  Smiling little shitbag.
One little smile and you think you own the whole fucking world don’t you, Julie?
Think you can just tease us and walk away? Huh? Think you can play your little head games on the Internet and never get found out. Yeah. That’s what you were doing before Kessler got ya outside of Walker’s, isn’t it? Little fuckwad Sweetie bitch. Just like the string of bad boyfriends you tried to hide from your parents back in Daletown, each one worse than the first who treated you the way you deserved to be treated.  You had to wear tinted glasses a lot to hide those dark ugly bruises. Did you think that would make up for Larissa? Is that what you thought?  There had to be more to it. Deep down you know there was a lot more to it, especially when you visited that slimeball in jail and let him touch your cunt. You never deserved Tim, or the house, or the car, or the children. Stupid shallow cock-teasing slut. Kessler didn’t know about that, did he? Robeson or Kirkwood. They’re all clueless.  They didn’t know that you were on the Internet talking to brutal strangers. Strangers who fantasized about ripping you apart and turning you into fertilizer.  Probably the same strangers who watch the films the killers make out here in the warehouse.  Robeson, Kirkwood, or Kessler had no idea the Sweetie was probably looking for exactly what she was gonna get. But you know they’d be real interested to find that out, don’t you? Little lost angelmeat adrift in cyberspace wondering about all those terrible bad men out there, the hungry eyes on the street, wondering what it would be like to be blood-fodder for a bunch of brutal bitch-killers? Wouldn’t everybody be interested to know all about little Sweetie’s extracurricular interests and activities... your family, the people at work, the neighbors. What a fascinating story.  They’d all be talking about it. ‘She was so nice,’ they would say. ‘Such a sweet woman.’ ‘Who would have thought?’  Maybe you should have gone with Larissa that night and been up on that fence right alongside her feeding those murdering jackals just like she did. You should have taken your place then. You should have owned up to the dark deep need inside you. You should have been right up there with Lari, taking it..Taking what was coming to you.
	“...take it, slut..” Kessler snarls.  Her asshole feels sweet around his cock.
Real sweet. Different than her cunt or her mouth.  Tighter. More fillable. More of a challenge in a way. He is surprised to feel her surge and push back against him.  There’s more to this bitch than was openly evident. Underneath the good woman, the mom, the wife, the PTA committee chairperson, the quiet intelligent and pretty waitress Kessler watched for three weeks before the kidnapping, he senses a pain-loving, punishment-seeking bitch and he slams his dick into her savagely. If what he senses and suspects is true, and he believes it is, leading Julie out of herself, or perhaps into herself, will be a delightful experience for him... showing her the truth underneath, peeling away the layers, sanding away the false verneer...that will be challenging and thoroughly rewarding.
	Now he fucks her up the ass hard, standing behind her as she crouches on her knees on the bed.  She has started to cry again - its so much nicer for Kessler when they cry - and her hands grip the sheets as he sends all ten inches of cockmeat up her, slamming it deep then pulling back to slam it in again.
	 He reaches down and opens the drawer of the bedside table.
	The flogger lies there coiled where he left it the last time he was on the set.
He picks it up and shakes it loose and as he continues to grip his beaten whore, one hand on her hip,  he begins to casually whip across her sloping back. Then he begins to flog her hard, swinging the multi-tongued weapon down on her already welted shoulderblades, painting welts on welts.
	Last time on this bed he and Robeson had savagely raped and beaten a fifteen year old virgin. They had double-fucked her ravaged body then dragged her outside, tied her to a tree and torn her to shreds with a chain-saw. That kill, like many others, had not been taped.  In fact, Kessler was beginning to lose track of the victims. It was starting to become one long bloody blur.
	This bitch Julie is special though and he gives her special attention going now for his second orgasm, slashing her back with the leather-tongued flogger, ramming up her asshole with powerful thrusting jabs. He puts slash after slash across her curving back making her scream, coming at her from different angles, striking down on the tops of her asscheeks and waist, swatting her thighs and calves, whipping her flanks, making the flogging tongues wrap around her belly and tits.
	And he whips her still harder and more viciously relishing her louder sobs and screams her babbling pleas, relishing the way her head is pressed to the sheets under her hair so that he can’t see her face....the way her arms search for something, support? balance? her hands clutching at the sheets and pillows, her
hips pushing back into his oncoming thrusts.
	The bitch is a good fuck and he’s glad he’s got her all to himself.  Not that he’ll mind sharing her.  He will specially enjoy sharing her with the guy from Harris State penitentiary. 
	But for now this is all he concentrates on, this moment, this beautiful sodomizing fuck.
	 - and already he feels the culmination approaching, the hot unresolved tension in his balls, the sweet release as he slashes at her back with all his strength.
	“Uuhhnnhhh!” he grunts pushing his cock in to the hilt in his screaming crying captive, flooding her ass-chute with cum, feeling the hot fluid pour out of her, drip from her pink sexlips, and stream down his balls. “Uhh shittt - goddamn bitch...”
	Now he will drag her into the bathroom and make her lick him clean.  He will make her take his pissing cock in her mouth and then wash her down under steaming water from the showerhead.  But for the moment he is content to let the furious energy die down, to pull out of her slickly hot asshole and rub his still-spurting cock clean on her welted crap-smeared asscheeks - there will be lots of time left to continue her rape later, plenty of long hours left to use the whore before morning comes rolling in over the forest and the Vanner warehouse.
	When he is done with Julie now, when he’s drained his bladder in her and had his refreshing shower, he will leave her hanging in bondage.
	Then he will take the short ride up the coast to Whitehall.
	There, tonight, he will take a stripper by the name of Mara Lane.
	He is excited by the prospect of another capture and rape, of fresh meat.
	That will put him in the mood to resume his destruction of Julie.
	He has rested up for this weekend of destruction and his body is charged with sexual energy and amphetamines. He will not need sleep.
	His Rolex tells him it is nearly three in the morning.
	There’s plenty of time left.
	Plenty of time before the final festivities begin.

7. Breaking Julie
(Thursday 6 AM)

	Was she dreaming? It was hard to tell. Nothing was solid anymore.
	What are you, Julie?
	A worthless slave, Master. I am meat. I am a hole.
	Who owns you?
	You own me, Master.
	What exactly do I own, what is mine to take?
	You own my body. You own my blood. You own my soul. You own my life.
	Was she dreaming or were the words coming from her lips?
	Time and reality had ceased to have meaning.
	How could she be speaking?
	She hung upside down by her ankles, gagged with the Victoria’s secret panties Kessler had taken from her when she’d first arrived and which he’d shoved down her throat under a red ball gag, blindfolding her after that, her legs wide, her wrists cuffed behind her and clipped to a rope wound tightly about her waist.
	Silence was imposed on her. She breathed with difficulty choking on her own seductive lingerie, breathing in the sharp exudate of her own body.
	Maybe the words were coming from the tape.
	The killer had made her listen to the tape over and over. It was on a loop. The speakers played the words over and over.  A man’s voice and then a woman’s voice. Over and over and over.
	What are you, Julie?
	But was that her voice on the tape answering?
	Or was it the voice of some previous victim now dead and buried out behind the warehouse.
	She could not recognize it as her voice. It was listless. Expressionless. 	Wasted.
	A worthless slave, Master.
	Worthless. She was  worthless. She’d always known that. Always.
Deep inside. Especially after Larissa was found....that was her fault. All of it.
She made it happen. She knew that now. She faced up to it.
	She had told Master everything and he’d listened smiling, standing over her, nodding slowly.
	He had told her she would tell him, after all - he had expected nothing less from her. He had told her he would know every secret.
	She’d told him about Larissa, told him about the secret boyfriends later, about her passion-less marriage to Tim, about her foolish games on the internet with brutal strangers.
	She revealed it all to him, after he’d returned,  on her knees before him marked by the welts he’d put on her and all the smaller wounds and then he’d told her to lie on the floor. Then he’d stuffed her blue panties in her mouth, ball-gagged her, bound her hands behind her, bound her ankles together, hoisted her up off the floor and attached the wires.
	Again a jolt of electrical energy ripped through her.
	She needed to be punished for her sins - punished hard.
	It never came when she thought it would come. Always when she wasn’t ready. Always by surprise.
	He had connected the electrodes to her pussy-lips and nipples.
	You own me Master.
	You.
	I am nameless meat for you.
	Punish your nameless worthless slut.
	Was he sitting there just watching her hang and pushing a button, sending the torment through her, making her lunge and jerk around helplessly like a
speared fish? Or was he gone, off again, somewhere else, leaving some automated device to continue her torture while he rested or pursued other interests?
	How long had she been hanging there, blind and mute in numb suspension listening to her voice on the tape, tiny headphones in her ears?
	It seemed like endless hours had passed since the first whipping and the rape on the bed. More hours after his return and her confessions and the
punishing bondage.
	Then somehow all that faded and she was stretched on a wooden rack before him and sewing pins with colorful round heads, yellow, red, blue, were being pierced into her tits and cuntlips, into the soles of her feet then yanked from her leaving tiny droplets of blood oozing from the wounds.  
	Then she had been half-dragged, crawling, thumping, down a flight of stairs into a vault like room.  There were cameras, lights...she recognized the place from the videos the killer had shown her...this was the killing room, or one of the killing rooms, one of the places the killers used.
	He had bound her standing, her back against a wooden post, roped by her ankles, wrists and neck and she had been forced to watch.
	But she was not sure if it was on a screen what she saw.
	...maybe it was real.  But time and reality had ceased to have meaning.
	You own me, Master.
	You own me.
	“Think about it, pig. This is someone’s daughter. It could even be your own daughter.”
	The little oriental girl was crying. She was naked and her hands were wrist-tied behind her with tight knotted rope.
	Julie was no longer gagged or blindfolded...just bound in a standing position, pressed upright against the wooden post, wrists roped behind the post, ankles secured to its base. 
	Kessler, wearing a black hood, had walked the child into the room.
	A metal ring-gag was inserted in the child’s mouth forcing it wide open and drool spewed from her chin and on to her chest.  Her little titties had not even begun to swell yet.  Her pussy was hairless. She was perhaps eight or nine years old. 	The cruel gag made the little one gasp for air.
	All Julie could do now was watch, wide eyed and breathless.
	Just stand there and watch.
	The masked killer had a big, black wooden-handled butcher knife in his hand.
	“Just fucking think about it. This could be Sandra.”
	“Please...” she said softly, knowing her pleading would do no good.
	“Kneel,” he told the child.
	The little girl slid down unwillingly, but obediently, crying, sobbing endearingly, wide-mouthed and still struggling to breathe.
	“Cute isn’t she,” he said coldly looking down at his kneeling victim.
“Cost me three grand...Brought here right out of Thailand. Looks just like the ones I had me in ‘Nam.  She’s a wonderful little ball-licker.”
	Tears ran down the little girl’s cheeks. She was trying to tell Kessler something in her own high-pitched oriental language but the ring gag would not allow her to form her words properly. It allowed her only to babble meaninglessly.
	“Filthy little piglet.”
	“Watch,” he told Julie.
	What else could she do?
	The child knelt facing her.  Child and woman faced each other in equal helplessness.
	She was a beautiful little girl, full of life, her teary sloping eyes dark hazel. She was sweet, pale, a perfect little china doll.
	Kessler took the child by her long smooth black hair and pulled her head back.
	Straddling her head he held her face between his strong thighs and put the knife-blade to her white stretched throat.
	“Watch,” he said again, softly.
	The hapless child began to make small whining noises which crescendoed urgently as she sensed the cold sharp blade against her skin.
	“...no...” Julie protested weakly. “...please...don’t do it!”
	The girl squealed and tried to move but the hooded killer held her effortlessly between his strong legs. He looked up at Julie and smiled and then slowly he bore down on the knife slowly slicing the pretty child’s neck open  from ear to ear his eyes never leaving Julie’s. Now the girl shrieked and gurgled loudly. Pulsing jets fountained out of her and spattered his arms and chest and belly.
	Blood ran down her quivering white body.
	“Yeahhh...” he groaned, his head tilting back. “Mmmmm -I love the feel of little girl blood on me.”
	“Dear God...” Julie sobbed. “You’re a monster.”
	“You got that right, cunt,” he responded still smiling gloatingly as the child continued to spurt blood from her severed neck.
	Julie wondered how many defenseless young females he had slaughtered before, especially when he’d been in Vietnam. She knew the rules over there had been suspended or just downright rewritten.  She knew that the jungles and villages of that war-torn country had provided Kessler with what he’d most needed.
	The killer parted his thighs and the wounded victim slid down weakly to lie on the floor under him babbling and gurgling as her life flooded away.
	Kessler bent down and grabbed the child’s ankles one at a time to lift them into metal cuffs that hung on chains from an overhead bar.  He went to one of the room’s central columns where a crank was mounted and began turning the lever.
	The child was pulled upward by her cuffed, wriggling feet, upside down, inverted, her neck still spurting blood.
	Her pretty face and hair dripped blood and it wasn’t long before a dark red puddle formed under her.
	Kessler stepped up to her and shoved his cock into the gash in her neck.
	Unable to turn away, Julie watched the desecrating wound-fuck which went on and on until the girl no longer jerked around or wriggled, or even twitched, until the pulsing jets of blood died down to a steady trickle. The masked killer rubbed his cock on the oriental child’s bloody cheeks, pressed it into her slitted still-open but glazed eyes and finally on her little lips which were almost purple on her chalky face.
	“Open up,” he grunted and the child obeyed her lips parting to allow the
blood-soaked cock passage.
	“MMmm-ahhhh - that’s nice -” Kessler growled. “That’s so fucking nice...
you just have no idea Julie...what it’s like to be a man and feel this.  So much
power...so much pleasure...Killing a little girl is just the ultimate fuck-thrill.
It’s so wrong, so horribly wrong.  But what the fuck - children die all the time...mmm...car accidents...cancer...poverty...starvation...and taking a child’s life. Well - that’s the ultimate slap in God’s face isn’t it? Or maybe the best way to be just like Him.”
	Julie cried for the dying girl watching as Kessler now turned the crank and lowered her small body.  Again he stepped up to his victim, masturbating with strong slow strokes, placing his huge veined cock-shaft up against her little
asscheeks.
	“...and fucking a little one like this when she’s half gone? Well that’s just like heaven on earth...beaucoup good time charlie...ohh yeahh....”
	Kessler pushed his large phallus right up against the tiny aperture of the
dying oriental child’s asshole then mercilessly he ground into her making her
mewl like a hungry kitten as he savaged her.  By the time he had pushed most of his cock into the child’s butthole she had stopped breathing and he was fucking
her dead body.  Her eyes remained open but vacant. Her ring-gagged mouth oozing spit and blood. Her brief life, a short journey where no love had been offered, no pity and no mercy found, ended in this basement killing room, her body violated, her blood in a warm puddle at her black-hooded killer’s feet.
	Then he pulled out of her and went to the crank to raise her little carcass way up.  Julie saw the demonic intensity in his features as he picked up the
machete which leaned against the pillar. It was the same machete that had been used on Sheila.
	With one fierce slash Kessler cut the head of the child clean off her body.
	It fell to the concrete floor, the pretty skull cracking like a small coconut. Then it tipped over and lay face up in a puddle of hair and blood, the little china doll mouth and eyes open like those of some surrealistic porcelain figure.
	Kessler then untied Julie from the post, leaving her hands still rope-bound behind her.
	He walked her over to the pool of blood under the hanging carcass of the
butchered child.
	“On your knees,” he ordered.
	She slid down obediently on to the bloody floor.
	“Kiss her,”
	Julie looked up at him in disbelief.
	“You heard me, bitch.” He growled.
	“Kiss the little gook cunt goodbye, just like her momma would if she were puttin’ her to bed.”
	“Oh dear God, please...don’t make me do this...I can’t do it...I just can’t...”
	“Sure you can,” Kessler said meanly, taking Julie by her hair and pushing her face down to the severed head.
	Awkwardly, Julie slid off her knees and her legs kicked out as she fell forward, her thighs splashing girlblood, her head held up by Kessler’s fist in her hair.
	“KISS HER!”
	She could smell the dead child’s hair as Kessler pulled her face right to it. It smelled fresh, recently shampooed. And she could look right into the lifeless brown eyes so much like Julie’s own, just like - Sandy’s - The child’s mouth gaped in moronic death.  Julie’s cheek came in  contact with the dead child’s own cheek and eyebrow.
	“Naaaiieeee!” Julie screamed, her mind twisting into chaos.
	Mercifully darkness swirled and closed around her and she felt herself falling, sliding down into layers of misty cold black.

8. Riemann

	“I want to see if you still got it in you,” Warden Harper told the sullen faced inmate.
	Then the guards took him to the room below cell block B. 
	 It was a concrete soundproof room with a one-way mirror and a smaller room adjacent to it. Each room had a separate entrance and those watching what was going on in the larger room through the one way glass could sit in comfortable easy chairs or come and go as they pleased without interfering with whatever was being watched.
	The inmate didn’t know who was behind the one way mirror and after he saw what was in the room he didn’t much care.
	They’d gotten a young black girl for him, a whore who worked the streets downtown but who’d gotten herself knocked up and had been caught dipping into her pimp’s profits.
	The last time he had been close to a female had been fifteen years earlier. 	That one had sat across from him at the visitor’s table and he’d had his
hand in her soft wet pussy.  That one deserved to die, just like her friend, the one he’d slaughtered by ramming a cold steel pipe up her works.
	Now he was in a twelve by sixteen room with a pretty gagged and bound black bitch who looked like she was a week away from giving birth.
	Her ebony skin was glossy with sweat, her pretty gagged face grimacing with fear.
	He licked his lips and began to take off his gray prison uniform.
	Warden Harper, who now sat in the shadows behind the one-way mirror, had taken over Harris Penitentiary a year and a half earlier.  He’d taken a special interest in the Riemann case, a personal and special interest.  Unknown to the State Board, the penal system of Virgina or anyone in a position of power, Harper shared some areas of interest with most of the psychotic killers in the prison he’d just been hired to run.  And so did some of the guards who worked for him.
	In the concrete room on the other side of the one-way mirror, under the glow of three fluorescent ceiling fixtures, the man who had once been a young college boy named Phillip Riemann stripped off his gray shirt and kicked off his shoes then peeled his pants off as the gagged negress watched him, her dark brown eyes alive with terror.  She huffed and tried to speak through the big rubber-ball gag struggling against the ropes that held her pinned to the wooden table in the center of the room. 
	Two men who worked for her pimp had pulled her off the street earlier that night, dragged her into a car and brought her to the prison.  At the gate, as it had been arranged, two guards had taken her, hauling her down the dark stairs between them while she screamed and cursed and yelled at them to let her go.  A couple of hard blows from their billy clubs on her legs, hips and belly had brought her to her knees and shut her up then they’d ripped off her clothes, gagged her and dragged her into the concrete room.
	Harper watched with a neutral expression. He was a big man, six-foot five, with a full head of dark brown hair.  His eyes were cold behind the black horn-rimmed glasses.  He wore a casual sports shirt instead of his usual suit and tie. After all, it was two thirty in the morning and he wasn’t here for any official function.  	Not by a long shot. 
	Guards Nesbitt, Warren and Lanning sat with him in the shadows.  They were his men on the block.  His private team.
	“Did you show him the film?” he asked Warren.
	A couple of days earlier he’d instructed Warren to show Riemann the video, Bloody Snuff One, which he’d recently acquired.
	“Sure did.” Warren replied.
	The two men had watched the film in the prison library when no one was around.  They’d watched it all the way through three times.
	“Fucking thing won’t win an Oscar but its some fine shit.”
	In the concrete room, Riemann, now naked moved toward the pregnant black girl on the table. She squirmed against the ropes.  Riemann reached out and ran his hand over her smooth swollen belly.  He could see a couple of dark bruises on her thighs where the billy clubs the guards had used on her left their
marks.
	“Did he ... enjoy it?” Harper asked. His erection had begun to push against the soft fabric of his slacks and he shifted in the soft chair uncomfortably, one
finger on his cheek, hand pressed to his chin, his eyes fixed on what was happening in the room beyond the one-way mirror.
	“You know it,” Warren responded. His own eyes were following the action in the adjacent chamber. Warren didn’t have to tell his boss that he too had enjoyed the video.  In fact he’d watched it again after Riemann was back in his cell.
	Behind them Nesbitt spoke.
	“He’s very interested in your plan, sir,” he told the warden.
	“Thinks its a great idea,” Lanning added.
	“Does he really?” Harper asked rhetorically.
	He watched Riemann go to the wall of the concrete room. Several implements of torture hung on hooks there.  The room, which had been a storage closet had been secretly modified by Harper and his men.
	Harper watched Riemann pick a long wooden rod which was studded with tiny metal barbs.
	He knew that after watching Bloody Snuff One Riemann would be primed and ready, charged up like a starving wolf.
	“I bet he does...” the warden said softly. “Yessir. I bet he does.”

	...In the concrete room Riemann turns to the one way mirror. 
	He cannot see the men behind it but he knows they are there.
	He sees himself reflected in the glass. He has spent his time in jail wisely working out strenously for three hours each day and his body is powerful, sculpted with hard-shaped muscles and decorated with a large dragon tattoo on his back.  The dragon is coiled, mean faced, fanged, and breathing fire.
	He has stolen the idea of the dragon from a story about a psychotic killer he has read in the prison library, even though he has nothing in common with the
character in that book.  His dragon, a copper, green and red masterpiece executed by an inmate who did tattoos as a sideline to robbing liquor stores had nothing in common with the one in the paperback he’d read.  It was street art.  Straightforward and brutal.
	“I want to ungag the bitch,” he tells the mirror. “I want to hear her scream.”
	An intercom speaker above the glass clicks and he hears Harper’s voice.
	“Do it. Give that nigger what she’s got coming. Make her sing.”
	Riemann moves on his bare feet across the room, reaches down and
unbuckles the leather strap that holds the gag in the woman’s mouth. As he pulls it from her he sees that the guards have stuffed her black lace panties in there under the black ball gag and he pulls them out, turning to smile at the one-way glass then rubbing the soft garment against his chest, belly and his big erect prick.
	The terrified brown-skinned female gasps and chokes as the gag is removed and she looks up at the white convict with the barbed wooden rod in his hand.
	“Aw, Jesus,” she wails. “Dear Jesus, naw, pleease, mistuh  - doan hurt me.
Cain’t you see I-I’m pregnant, mistuh? - please -”
	Her voice is raspy, throaty.
	“I can see alright,” he says softly, smiling, letting her panties fall to the floor, moving the ball gag away from her face.  He leans down over her and
looks into her big frightened pupils.  “Oh, yeah, nigger, I can see that your belly is full of stinking nigger meat and that you’re about eight months in. Hell, that’s the best part of it.”
	His free hand again moves over the round sphere of her black belly.
	“Am I suppose to give a shit?”
	Inside, the fetus kicks.
	“Ohh,” Riemann responds, raising his eyebrows.
	“The little worm’s awake.”
	“Please, mistuh...”
	“...little nigger worm...”	he’s stepping back away from the table.
	“...pleeease...”
	On the other side of the mirror the men lean forward. Their hands are moving in the darkness, pressed against the swelling flesh inside their pants.
	They see Riemann raise the barbed club.
	This is going to be messy.
	The black whore screams.
	“Naaawwwhhhh!”
	The smack of wood and steel against naked female skin is loud and meaty.
	“Christ!” Nesbitt growls.
	Riemann no longer smiles. His face is expressionless, like a death mask.
	He brings the barbed stick down across the screaming black female’s fat, milk-swollen tits, gouging out her nipples.  Milk and blood spill from her. He works her way down her chest to her big upstanding belly hitting her harder and harder, driving the metal spikes into her skin.  Bloody drops speckle the mirror.
	Warden Harper grunts with pleasure.
	Riemann smacks the nigger whore’s plump thighs viciously, continuing to move down.  He cracks the wooden weapon across her knees and shins, across the tops of her bound feet, across her roped ankles.  He slices at the soles of her feet making her wail and scream in snarling fits of pain.  Her hair is cut short to the nape of her neck and she bangs the back of her skull against the table as her body jumps to the fierce beating.
	Riemann looks at her wide screaming mouth and thinks of how sweet it will be to ram his cock in there, into the hot warmth of her pink nigger throat.
He has never had a niggerwoman, in fact he has not had any woman for nearly sixteen years.  Like being on a long diet, he muses, a very long diet...and then
being served a big three-tier chocolate wedding cake.
	He has learned of Harper’s plan, to send him out of the prison with false identity credentials and to connect him with the makers of the Bloody Snuff videos,  to establish a link for the perverse warden of Harris Penitentiary, a profitable and pleasurable link and to be handsomely rewarded for his ‘activities’.
	As he swings the barbed club down again on the big belly of the pregnant nigger whore he regrets that it has taken so long for Warden Harper to be assigned to Harris, that he, Riemann, has spent a third of his life in this shithole instead of out in the world chasing and killing pussy-meat, that his medical studies were cut short by the killing of Larissa Wilson and the testimony of her friend Julie Stevens.  His regrets fuel his anger and he hits the writhing bitch on the table harder and harder.  He has spent nearly sixteen years in prison dreaming of getting out and getting his hands on that sweet little bitch that came to talk to him after he, Parks and Hutch had killed her friend....she wanted him badly.  She wanted all of him. All of his anger and rage against women. All his demonic energy. He could see that in her even though she could not see it for herself.
	On the table the black whore’s screams change in intensity, she gasps for air between blows.
	She’s going into labor.
	Riemann smiles.
	Soon he will get his hands on the bitch Julie.  He knows now, after speaking with Kessler himself - this time the slut won’t get away.
	Something in Kessler’s voice gave him absolute certainty of that.
	Kessler sounded like the kind of guy Riemann needed to get to know.
	Kessler had told him that after Julie there would be others - many others - enough woman-meat for a lifetime. So Kessler promised. And Kessler’s voice on the phone had a depth and a finality which utterly convinced him.
	Yeah. This guy Kessler was his kind of guy alright.
	Too bad Hutch and Parks wouldn’t be with him to enjoy it. Not even Warden Harper would have no pull at the State penitentiary to release two lifers. In any case, his former partners in crime considered him a traitor for selling them out. 	
	But he is sure he will find new partners with whom to share his killing lust.
	He is sure of that as he beats the writhing pregnant bitch.
	He is sure that Kessler, a remorseless bitch-killer like himself, will be his next partner.
	Together, with Harper’s money and power behind them, they will be unstoppable.
	Right now he has to show Harper and the guards that he does still have it in him.
	The killing fury.
	The need for slutblood.
	It’s what Harper needs to see and Riemann’s going to show him.
	He’s going to show him in a big way.
	After ten more vicious blows across the swollen black belly of the keening whore Riemann tosses the punishment rod aside, takes a leather strap that hangs from a hook on the wall and mounts the table.  He squats over the sobbing female then kneels on her shoulders and sits on her pregnant belly putting his full two hundred pounds of man weight down on her.  Wrapping the leather strap tightly
around her throat he leans forward on the weeping whore.
	“Suck me good and I’ll let you live,” he lies, smiling meanly down on her.
	“C’mon, you nigger cunt...you hear me?”
	He slaps her hard across the face.
	“Get me off and I’ll let you live.”
	He yanks on the strap choking her.
	“Ghhghh!” she grunts. “B-baby - ughh! b-baby’s comin’...”
	“Don’t you worry about that, you stupid jungle bunny,” Riemann growls pulling on the strap.
	“You just worry about getting me off...you got it?”
	He yanks on the strap again.
	She nods her head wildly.
	“Yess - yesssuhh - I will - ughh - I get you off...ah d-do it good...jez for you ...ghhh...jez the way I know you like it...”
	He takes her by her close cropped nigger hair and brings his big cock right to her flat-nosed, fat-lipped African face.
	“You don’t have a fuckin’ clue as to how I like it, pig, so don’t give me any of that whore talk. Just swallow.”
	With his other hand he pulls on the strap as the black woman takes his long hard white shaft into her mouth, her brown lips closing sweetly around his
erection.
	The tortured whore’s ebony body is covered with a shining sheen of sweat and tiny flecks of blood from the barbed beating.  As the spasms of labor tear through her she writhes fitfully pulling on the ropes that hold her spreadeagled by ankles and wrists.
	 From the room on the other side of the mirror Harper and his guards watch.  	It pleases them immensely to see the strong white man sitting atop the bound black woman, his big hard cock down her throat. Her water has broken and a wash of fluid spills out on the table and on to the floor.
	Riemann rides the pregnant bitch slamming his hard butt down against her
big abdomen as he pushes his hard manmeat into her soft mouth.
	The head of the fetus pops out between the fat brown lips of her big pussy.
	“Goddamn,” Harper whispers.
	“Un-fucking-believable,” Lanning responds.
	Riemann bites his lower lip, throws his head back and yanks on the strap choking his nigger whore as he fucks her throat.
	“C’mon, bitch,” he exhorts.
	“Get me off! You can do it! Filthy nigger whore! Do it!”
	He bucks up an down on her, his thighs and buttocks slamming down
on her big over-ripe belly.
	Eyes bulging, nostrils flaring the black woman looks up at the strong white man that rams his cock down her throat.  Her eyes plead, her brows arched, tears overspill down her mahogany cheeks.
	He looks down at her hands tied together above her head to a peg on the surface of the torture table.
	She has big long nails, like the black sluts on the rap music videos he has watched in the prison TV lounge.  Big long white nails that scratch and tap against each other as he slams his ass down against ther belly and his long man shaft down her throat. She has a nice big ghetto-shelf butt too and Riemann regrets he won’t be getting around to slicing it to pieces.
	The fetus pushes its way out of the tortured mother helped by the
slamming body of the white killer against the heaving belly that has housed it.
	It inches out of her, bit by bit until with a final screaming push she yields to nature and the baby plops out on the table in a splash of white fat and blood.
	Riemann looks back over his shoulder to see it squirming between the outflung ankle-bound beaten legs of his victim.
	“Worm’s out!” he jeers. 
	Viciously he tugs on the choking strap and jams his cock deep down
the nigger whore’s throat.
	Still looking back over his shoulder he shouts:
	“Goddamn - its a girl!”
	Then he stares down at the choking female on the end of his cock.
	“Its a little nigger-girl, bitch - and I’m gonna fuck it.”
	The whore shakes her head, gags as Riemann rises, stands over her, lets go of the strap.
	He stands on the table, his head nearly touching the low ceiling of the concrete room, his buzz-cut hair brushing the fluorescent lamp.
	In awe, the men behind the glass watch Riemann raise one leg, his foot positioned above the black woman’s head.  The dragon on his back stretches as he seems to expand, raising his leg, arms lifting on either side, like someone about
to crush an insect.
	He stomps down once, driving the heel of his bare foot into her nose
and crushing the bone into her brain.  He stomps again into her eye which
squishes out with a loud wet pop as she screams, blood jetting from her
mouth and eye-socket.  Then he turns around, facing in the direction of her feet and he drops to his knees driving both kneecaps into her chest, smashing her ribcage in.  Her scream ends in a shrill squeal as the afterbirth shoots from
her cunt. Riemann sinks down, his ass on her face, his hands gripping her
deformed belly as he presses himself down on her suffocating her, feeling
her gasping bloody face warm and sticky between his hard asscheeks, her dying breath blowing on his balls.
	When she finally lies still he sits on her belly and lifts the squirming fetus from the table.  It begins to squeal and cry. He lifts it above his head and
smiles with the sick idea that enters his head. His cock is still urgently hard
and he’s not about to fuck the dead nigger on the table. After sixteen years he needs something warm and lively on the end of his prick.
	He slides to the floor and holds the baby out in front of him putting
his big cock up to its tiny little vagina.
	He can feel the little heart beating in the baby’s chest.
	His cock is almost as big as the infant which is about the size of a football in his big hairy white hands, soft, brown, still moist with its mother’s blood, still 
dripping. 
	“Yeahhh,” he growls. “Fresh black bun just out of the oven.”
	Licking his lips Riemann pushes the tip of his cock into the baby girl holding her tightly pulling her in toward his ramrod organ.  The head of his cock can barely penetrate the impossibly small opening and as he jams himself into
the immature and unformed aperture the baby screams with shrill agony.  It has
come into the world only to be split open, to be horribly raped to death for 
the entertainment and sexual release of a group of morbidly sick men who watch
mesmerized on the other side of a dark glass. For them, the level of entertainment value has risen to a plateau even their twisted minds could not have possibly imagined.
	They look upon the unfolding event they have set in motion with sick silent fascination.
	The infant’s hands and feet flail helplessly, tiny foot-soles and palms pale, almost pink as Riemann shoves his cock remorselessly into it ripping into its guts, blood gushing out of the little cunt and bubbling up out of its mouth and nose. He grabs it one handedly now, supporting the small soft body from underneath as he hilts himself in its dying warmth and begins to pump it back and forth, her head cradled between his thumb and forefinger, he jerking himself off with the newborn, plundering innocent meat with savage glee, looking into the mirror and watching himself.
	“Guess I still got it in me, warden...” he barks. “Huh? What do you think? I
think I still do...uhhh...damn, she’s tight, Warden...tight and sweet for a little
nigger bitch...yeahhh... Probably a lot nicer than her mama...but I guess I’ll never know that for sure...uhhh...”
	The men behind the glass watch Riemann’s hips jerk as he shoots off
inside the baby girl’s dead body.  They watch him hold the inanimate infant against his crotch for a few moments and they see blood and cum spill out of its violated hole. The killer lifts the dead child off his cock, pulling it off his prick with some  difficulty, then raising it to his face.
	“Sweet Je-sus,” Nesbitt mumbles, half rising from the chair.
	All four men are jerking off, their cocks in their hands as Riemann
lifts the baby girl infant to his face and bites into its throat.
	“Beautiful,” Lanning whispers hoarsely. “This guy’s incredible.”
	Fresh blood pours down the killer’s chest and belly, down his strong thighs as he closes his eyes to drink from the baby’s neck.
	“...Yeahh...” Warren replies. “This is definitely the guy we’re looking for.”
	“Definitely,” Warden Harper mutters. “No fucking question about it.”

9. The Meat Locker
 (Friday 11 PM)

	Julie felt the cold first.
	It came up from her feet into her legs and into her belly.
	It swarmed over her, seeped into her, until her body felt like ice, until she was numb.
	She’d never been this cold in her life. Empty and lifeless cold. Gravestone cold. Hopeless and wordless.
	The cold woke her finally, and then she wasn’t sure she was awake because there was no light.  But the sore heat of the welts and piercings on her skin and the gnawing sensations of hunger and thirst assured her she was conscious.
	She heard someone breathing in the shadows.
	Then, as her eyes adjusted, the shadows were lighter and she could make out shapes, a chair, a table, boxes.  She shivered and pulled herself into a fetal position.  Her wrists and ankles were bound with steel cuffs which rattled along the stone floor as she moved.
	“Who’s there?” a young girl’s voice asked from the darkness in a corner.
	Julie thought maybe she had imagined the voice.  Nothing seemed real anymore.
	“Who is it? Is that you, Jessie? Is it you? Did he hurt you?”
	“N-no...” Julie replied.  “I’m not Jessie.”
	“Oh God,” the child’s voice said.
	“It’s ok,” Julie said trying to comfort her. “I’m Julie. Julie Winnfried. Who are you?”
	“Is Jessie there with you? Did you see her?”
	Julie thought of the oriental girl she’d watched Kessler slaughter but wasn’t sure if that had been real.  Maybe that had been a dream like the other dream, with the demon soldiers and the jungle.
	After that the killer had tied her to a chair and whipped her tits, this time with a riding crop. Then he’d beaten and raped her so many times she’d lost count.  She had a hazy memory of hanging by her wrists a metal dildo in her pussy and jolts of electricity slamming into her.
	She had an even hazier memory of seeing some frightened, half-naked women, bruised and chained to a wall by steel manacles in what appeared to be a jail cell or a dungeon.
	But she wasn’t sure about any of it.
	In fact, she wasn’t sure how she’d ended up in this cold place.
	“No,” Julie said weakly talking into the dark corner where the child’s voice came from. “I haven’t seen Jessie...is she your friend?”
	“She’s my older sister. J-Jessie - Jessica Rowen. The man took us...he brought us here. He hit Jessie.”
	The girl began to sob softly and it was hard to tell what she was trying to say.
	Julie crawled toward the voice.
	“Its ok, honey, its ok,” she kept saying trying to quiet the child.
	The floor of the room was very cold, unnaturally cold. It was like being inside a freezer.
	The child kept babbling.
	“What are you saying, baby?” Julie asked.
	“...ice lady...are you...are you one of them? Ice people?”
	“The nice people?”
	“Ice...ice...”
	As Julie moved toward the child her thigh brushed against something hard
and cold that hung a few inches off the floor.  She looked back into the
shadows and saw a white shape hovering there. 
	“Jesus!” Julie gasped as she shrunk from it.
	A nude dead girl hung by a meat hook driven through her throat.
	It was the feet of the cadaver Julie had felt against her.
	As she cringed away from that body her face brushed against another cold mass.  She gave out a strangled cry as she turned her head to see another pair of bare feet with painted toe-nails right in front of her.
	Ice people the little girl had said.  
	These were murdered girls the killers had stored in this cold locker, Julie realized.  She couldn’t see the face of the cadaver she’d just brushed against but
assumed she too had been hung on a meat-hook.
	“...scared...” the little girl groaned. “I’m scared.”
	“Can you come to me, sweetie?” Julie called.
	“No,” the child whined. “I can’t move.  He - he tied me to the wall...”
	“Ok, ok,” Julie replied trying her best to sound reassuring. “I’ll come to you.”
	“Its cold,” the little girl cried. “ Its so cold.”
	“I’ll be there in a minute,” Julie said. “Hold on.”
	Then there was a metallic sound, as of a lock snapping open and a light came on, a blinding, glaring fluorescent lamp in the ceiling.
	Julie groaned as the light stabbed her eyes.
	Kessler stood over her, a leering smile on his lips. In the white glare his hard features were almost inhuman, his flesh seemed to have the texture of sheet metal.
	“I see you’re awake,” he told her.
	She watched him close the heavy metal door behind him.
	“I thought I’d put you on ice for a while. Cool you down a bit.” He wore a black robe which draped down to his bare feet. A knotted white cord held the robe tightly around his waist. He looked rested and relaxed.
	“Also I thought I’d give you time to get acquainted with our little visitor...and our - ‘storage’ facilities.”
	Now Julie looked around the small room and her mind reeled with horror.
	Dead girls hung from meat hooks all around them, beautiful young girls and women, a dozen or more of them.
	Some had small puncture wounds in their chests and abdomens and
Julie realized they’d been shot to death, allowed to bleed and then hung in the freezer. Others had been grossly mutilated.
	Kessler stepped over her and walked to the opposite side of the room toward the child who was bound to the concrete wall, arms and legs outstretched to manacles on the wall which kept her nearly three feet off the ground.
	“This is Ann,” Kessler growled taking the child by her hair to smear his lips on hers as she sobbed, squealed, and tried to move her face away. “mmmm....Ann Rowen. Her sister’s hanging right over there.”
	With outstretched arm and pointing finger he indicated one of the dead females who hung near the freezer door, watching the little girl’s face intently as he did so.
	The little girl followed Kessler’s pointing hand and saw her sister hanging on the meathook.
	She stared vacantly. After a moment she began to cry soundlessly.
	Kessler’s outstretched arm fell to his side.
	“Jessie was sweet little fuck, yes she was...mmmm, a real sweet little fuck.
I had a real nice time with her. Annie watched me do Jessie but keeps forgetting about it.  I guess the trauma is just too much for the little pumpkin. Soon as I turn off the light she starts asking for sissypoo again....Kids these days. They’re just too soft. Spoiled.  Am I right or am I right? They fall apart so easy.”
	Kessler stood in front of the young girl and undid the cord on his robe.
	Julie could see he had positioned his victim for just this purpose.
	She watched him grip little Ann’s head by her dark brown hair which ran down in tangled spirals over her bare shoulders. He put his big cock to her tiny pussy and pushed upward into her as the child started to cry softly, fat tears
dripping off her cheeks and on to her budding little titties and belly.
	“Ahhh...” Kessler moaned. “She’s still nice and warm....I’ve had her in here for about five hours now but she’s still nice and warm inside...stupid little cunt...”
	She watched him run his hands down her body.
	“Cold on the outside though,”
	“I bet her fucking sister’s not so warm inside,” he mused.
	Julie watched him pull out of the hanging child and move down the row of hanging corpses.
	Ann sobbed plaintively and blood ran down the inside of her thigh. She hung her head.
	Kessler moved in behind the corpse of Jessie Rowen prying her thighs apart with some difficulty.  Rigor mortis had set in some time ago and the mutilated female corpse was rigid.
	In silent horror Julie watched Kessler lift his cock up into Jessie Rowen’s cunt from behind her.  Both of the young girl’s tits had been cut off and Kessler’s hands moved over the jagged edges of torn girlmeat, his fingers probing deeply into the hard frozen flesh as his prick pushed upward into the dead youth. Julie watched the killer’s shaft rise almost to his balls as Kessler went up on his toes and clutched the cold rigid body against him his hands moving slowly over the abdomen and fingering the stab wounds.
	“Shit,” Kessler groaned. “Talk about a cold fuck...” 
	Jessie Rowen had died with her eyes open.  She had beautiful blue eyes, like her little sister’s, that stared sightlessly at the wall above Julie like glass marbles.
	Crystalline ribbons of blood ran frozen down her chest and belly and legs.
	Julie thought she could not have been any older than seventeen and both she and her sister Ann had sweet child-like features, baby-fat cheeks, small cutely shaped noses. It was clear why Kessler was drawn to them.  Their innocent beauty was clearly his preferred target. Julie didn’t think either Jessie or her sister had ever been near anything like what Kessler brought them into.  He had desecrated their bodies, their minds and their souls.  He had sexually butchered the older sister while the younger one watched and delighted on the grisly impact of his actions.
	Julie wondered from whose perspective the event would have been worse. From the older child? Hanging helpless as the horrible slashing and piercing pain envelops her, wrenched by the thrusts of Kessler’s blade, looking into her sister’s wailing face? Or from the younger? Watching her sibling’s body savagely defiled, slashed, pierced, cut, helpless to act to think or to understand? What’s worse? Knowing you are about to die and die horribly, perhaps while your killer drives himself into your agonizing flesh, knowing that your little sister will be left behind for the monster’s cruel pleasure. Or is it worse to be the small child, watching your older sister succumb while the smiling killer’s knife rips the life from her, bit by bit?
	As she cringed against the cold wall near Ann Rowen’s outstretched legs Julie looked down the row of dead females which hung by meathooks just like Jessie, some of them also open-eyed, pupils gray or frosted, others eye-less, some faces terribly bruised and disfigured others bearing few marks and blissfully peaceful, all distorted by the stretch of their meathooked necks and the bloody steel tips emerging through their pinkish lifeless lips.
	There were blondes and brunnettes, teenagers and young women, even one full-figured red-head, still wearing torn black lace panties who appeared to be  middle-aged.  Most were white but two or three were black and one
was Asian, although she was not the little one Julie had seen Kessler butcher. In fact that little girl - Julie wondered if she’d even been real - was not in the refrigerated chamber.  	The murdered red-head had lovely alabaster skin and tiny freckles. One of the black girls, a slender beauty was unmarked except for an ugly bullet hole in her long graceful neck next to the gouging metal hook from which she hung.
	All these women and girls had suffered terribly, physically and psychologically, to please Kessler and his men. Each one deeply moving and tragic, individually doomed. And all of them now, in their death, belonged to their killers completely.
	“Pretty, aren’t they?” Kessler asked.
	Julie immediately dropped her gaze to the floor.
	He spoke to her as he continued to fuck the dead teen.
	“I don’t bury all of them right away...mmm...I like to fuck them after a while...sometimes weeks later...ahhh...Jessie is relatively fresh...uh-yeahhh - I killed her just before I took you.  Her screams were beautiful...Ann watched...and listened -  didn’t you, baby?”
	Julie could hear the wet sound of the killer’s cock sliding in and out
of Jessie Rowen and she knew he was looking at the child bound to the wall now.
	The little sister of the murdered teen continued to hang her head and
cry softly.
	“The little bitch is out of it,” Kessler commented coldly. “I want you to lick her pussy, Julie...ahh...yeah - Lick the little slut and see if you can’t put
some fucking life back into her.”
	Julie lifed her gaze to the hollow eyes of the killer, searching for his
features in the shadows behind the teenager’s hung cadaver. 
	“...I - c-can’t...” she whispered hoarsely.
	“Oh no?” Kessler asked sardonically. “Maybe you’d like to watch me kill her right now then, just like I did her sister? Huh? Or like that little chink bitch in the slaughter room...Would you like that, whore? I know I would...Then I could leave you in here with them for a few hours...with all of them...ahhh...all the dead bitches...until its time for you...”
	“No, oh dear God no, please...” Julie heard herself say.
	His terrible words had confirmed that the slaughter of the oriental child she’d witnessed earlier had been no dream. Julie reeled dizzily from the horror she had been plunged into.  She knew full well that if she didn’t do as Kessler said he would kill again with no remorse, no feeling, no guilt. He would kill the helplessly bound Rowen girl. And he would enjoy it.
	Reluctantly, she began to move toward Ann, ankle chains dragging noisily on the floor of the refrigerated chamber as she moved on her knees, tears welling up in her eyes as she shivered from the cold. Her breath puffed out in tiny clouds as she moved and she could see the marks the killer had left on her earlier with his whips but her skin was numb and she could not feel them. Her feet were bare, toes numb, and she did not remember when the high-heel sandals he’d made her wear had been removed and yet the memory of  the savage fuck on the blue satin sheets came into her head vividly. She remembered the cheap slutty shoes pointed at the warehouse ceiling. As she looked up, tears dripped down from the eyes of the child bound spreadeagled on the wall, and on to Julie’s forehead and cheeks.  She could smell the little girl’s penetrated love hole. It smelled of blood and piss and mancum.  She could see the small trail of blood down Ann’s white thigh.  It led to her knee, turned sharply back into the kneehollow and continued downward to drip off her calve to the floor.
	She had absolutely no reason to doubt that Kessler would murder Ann Rowen just as he had viciously murdered the oriental youth, in the torture chamber, just as  he had murdered Jessie Rowen and all the women who now hung frozen for his macabre enjoyment like slaughtered cattle at a meat packing plant...or maybe this was still an illusion, maybe none of it was happening.
	She tried to hold on to that very improbable possibility as she lifted her face to Ann Rowen’s hairless little twat.
	Lovingly she brought her chained hands up to the child’s asscheeks. The skin was amazingly smooth but very cold and Ann was shivering visibly.
	Looking up tenderly into the girl’s face through her own tear-blurred eyes
Julie cupped the tiny sex mound in her mouth and thrust her tongue gently against the wrinkled labia.  As she began to lick Ann’s muff a ripple of tension moved down the child’s bound legs. Below the steel ankle cuffs that held her to the wall the child’s feet wriggled slowly. Annie sniffled as her crying began to ebb away and her head tilted back against the cold wall.
	Across the room Kessler grunted and thrust into the cold cadaver of Annie’s older sister gripping the hips to hold her steady, the dead teen’s bare feet off the floor and far apart, the meat hook gouging into her lifeless neck, her blue lips slightly parted and a fresh drop of fluid blood rolling down her pale chin. The killer watched Julie’s head bobbing slowly on Ann Rowen’s little twat and he
reveled in the sense of obscene power that came over him.  Before slaughtering them he thoroughly enjoyed turning his bitches into playthings that did his bidding and followed his orders. He expected nothing short of complete, mindless subservience and obedience and that’s exactly what he always got. Most women were easy to defeat.  Society had taken care of that for him. He only needed to bring out their submission, bring it out and use it against them for his own sadistic ends.
	“That’s right,” he growled. “Eat the little whore...eat her good...”
	Kessler’s words sent urgent chills through Julie’s body.  Incredibly she felt her pussy lubricating, her cheeks flushed, even in the cold room.  Her fingers dug into Anne’s buttcheeks and she pressed her lips hard against the child’s twat.  Julie
felt debased, used up.  She had been brought down to the zero point.
This was who she really was ultimately.  Nothing but obedient female meat, deserving of nothing but the most horrendous and cruel punishment that could be devised. She had been captured, raped, sodomized, tortured and broken and she
was actually turned on. She was helping in the rape of a child. She was collaborating in her own destruction.  There was no way she could oppose Kessler and her only psychological escape was to make herself believe it was all illusion, all of it, the snuff videos, the killing of the Asian child, this refrigerated chamber, the Rowen sisters, as she moaned and nibbled mindlessly on the little girl’s tender twat flesh...this was all a nightmare she could surrender to and in which she could allow her own masochistic behavior to bloom unchecked.
	For the killer, the kneeling woman working on the wall-bound child was
an amazing source of pleasure.  As many women as he had tortured and murdered, as many thousands of imaginative torments as he’d inflicted, there was always a new twist waiting around the bend to surprise him,  something he had not yet thought of or pursued.  Jessie Rowen was a cold piece of meat around his cock, a sharp contrast to the hot bleeding throat of the oriental child he’d slaughtered the night before, a welcome change of pace.  He liked fucking dead women. It was a special treat and he meant to get the most out of this slab of whoremeat as he could get. But having the woman eating the child’s pussy in the freezer with him, both of them in chains, both of them slated to die that weekend was just the absolute peak of perfection.
	When little Ann Rowen began to groan, Julie didn’t care if it was in pleasure or in mindless and instinctive reaction to what she was doing.  Julie
now was one with the child, pushing her tongue up Ann’s muff-hole and
long nailed fingers up her tiny asshole.  Kessler told her to bite the child and she did so, hard, making the child squeal and stare down at her with panic-filled eyes.
Julie’s own eyes had turned feral by then, catlike and one of her hands had
slid down between her own whipped thighs to rub at her own surging heat.
	This was not real, she kept tellng herself.
	This did not matter.
	Julie no longer felt the cold even though small clouds of hissing steam
escaped her nostrils and lips as she devoured Ann Rowen’s cunt.  She no longer felt hunger or thirst or pain. She knew somewhere in her mind that what she was doing was devastatingly wrong, that the child had tripped out psychologically, that Ann’s little body had succumbed to the sexual stimulation mindlessly. But she just didn’t care anymore.  It was not real. It did not matter. She licked and nibbled on the small swollen pubis hungrily and images began to explode in her own mind.  The room around her lost all consistency and geometry and she was out on a field by a line of trees.  She was on her knees on the ground before a chain link fence and Larissa was hung up above her, legs spread wide.
	“Ahh yeahhh,” dead Larissa was groaning. “Ahh yeahhh eat me, Juuulie...
Eeeeeeeat me!”
	And then the women hanging on the meat-hooks were swaying and groaning in hot rut, rubbing their mangled pussies, gasping through their gashed necks and smiling, kicking their legs as they hung off the freezer room floor, rubbing against each other, bleeding their frozen blood.
	“...the killing pain...” Larissa was groaning,  and some of the women
were whispering the words again, their breaths making small clouds of moisture in the freezing air, the metal meathooks grinding and squealing against the metal
crossbar they hung from.
	“...ahhh the killing pain the men give us is perfect.”
	“The way things should be,” Jessie Rowen moaned softly as Kessler’s cock filled her cold dead womb.
	And then Kessler was standing over Julie, grabbing a shank of her tangled hair to pull her away from little Ann Rowen’s pussy and down under his blood smeared cockshaft.
	“Here you go, whore,” he snarled pumping hot wads of cum up out of his balls and on Julie’s upturned face as he held her firmly in place.
	And she opened her hungry mouth wide, receiving thick spurts of his thick hot sperm, yielding as he yanked her to his cock and made her take it in her mouth, choking as it pushed into her throat still spurting steamy man milk.
	She looked up into his evil gloating eyes, her mouth full of him and she moaned softly, still rubbing herself, her pussy pulsing and dripping.
	It wasn’t real.
	It didn’t matter.
	Kessler smiled as he drew his cock from her and smeared its pulsing
crown on her cheeks and forehead and in her hair, her eyes never leaving his, her mouth open and leaking two streams of cum down her chin and neck.  The jism rolled down her shoulder, down her whipped tits and swollen nipple on to her
striped thigh.
	He knew this bitch was broken completely now but he wanted to be absolutely sure.  It never hurt to pound the point home.
	“Who owns you, pig?” he asked softly.
	The sound of his voice brought her back.
	As she answered, his cum stuck to her teeth and tongue and lips. She could taste the dead girl he’d had on his prick. She could taste little Ann Rowen’s pussy.
	She began to sob brokenly as she answered the killer’s question.
	“I belong to you, Master...completely.”
	“And...what exactly do I own, what is mine to take?
	“You own my body. You own my blood. You own my soul. You own my life.”
	It was the words she’d heard on the tape. The words had become hers.
	This was real.
	This did matter.
	“That’s what I like to hear,” he growled. The bitch had learned what he’d taught her.
	Turning abruptly from her he walked to the freezer door, shut the light out and left the freezing room closing the door behind him.
	After a few moments, Ann Rowen began to cry and shiver in the cold darkness.
	“Jessie,” she moaned. “Is that you, Jessie? Are you there?”
	Julie slumped down, sitting on the cold floor, one shoulder against the wall, her head hanging lifelessly, shamefully, sperm and drool dripping from her lips.
	Soon, she too began to weep.

10. The Fishing Trip
(Saturday 8 AM)

	Two days after the Winnfried bitch was kidnapped outside Walker’s in Seabrook, early on Saturday morning, Bill Kirkwood picked up Stan Robeson at his home. They’d told their wives, as on previous occasions, that they were off on a fishing trip for the weekend.
	As they drove out of town in Bill’s black Chevy pickup they tuned in the chatter of town police on Kirkwood’s battery powered police radio. That’s when they’d found out that Tim Winnfried had reported his wife missing early on Thursday.
	 Robeson expresed worry that a kidnapping right in their own territory, specially of a well-known and likable woman like Julie, would bring too much media attention to the town. Kirkwood listened to the older man with less than full attention.  He’d spent late Friday afternoon after work sitting by the public pool getting a fierce hard-on watching his thirteen year old daughter Leanne and her girlfriends swim and prance around and lie on the reclining chairs, Leanne in a tiny pink bikini.  That night he’d tied his wife Joan to the four poster bed and fucked her violently until she cried and begged him to stop. He felt that things for him were getting out of hand.  He fantasized about taking Joan and Leanne out to the warehouse and making a snuff film with them.  He would often jerk off two or three times a day in the bathroom remembering, re-living, or fantasizing about the things that had already happened and that would or that could happen in the warehouse.  Unlike Robeson he liked the danger and the thrill of taking victims right from under the noses of town police and anyone else that might be watching; in fact, the sense of total risk served only to enhance his pleasure. He fantasized about taking his own daughter and torturing her to death making his wife watch and beg.  He was over the edge, a goner, and he knew it.
	Robeson on the other hand was cautious.  But he too had savage fantasies about his young wife Sally.  Sick fantasies that he never expressed to her and which had begun after the slaughter of Sheila in the warehouse.  He enjoyed fucking Sally doggie style so that she could not see the rage on his face as he slammed into her.  He had not gone as far yet as his friend in convincing his wife to participate in anything that remotely resembled S&M activity. And his boys, Jack and Tony, both in their young teens, were not a source of temptation like young Leanne was for Kirkwood.  Truth be told, Robeson too was tempted by Bill’s daughter and he often wondered, though he never voiced it, whether his buddy had ever fucked her or done something else with her.  Knowing Kirkwood as he did Robeson found it hard to believe that the man had not by now at least considered the fertile possibilities Leanne’s developing nubile body suggested.
	A year and a half later, Sally Robeson and Joan and Leanne Kirkwood would be savagely raped, tortured and beautifully butchered in the warehouse. Then their bodies would be torn apart, dismembered and buried and Kessler and their newest partner, unofficially released from Harris penitentiary, would move the video operation across the country and disappear from the Seabrook vicinity leaving no discernible trace.
	Six years later investigators would finally obtain a subpoena for a search of the Vanner warehouse property but they would find nothing. The grave markers behind the warehouse would have been removed, grass and shrubs masking the burial pits where the butchered females would still lie, by that time eighty seven of them. 
	The authorities would never discover any connection between the abandoned property and the porno videos, legal or illegal, made there or any connection of the warehouse with the Winnfried disappearances; and they would never track down the two men missing from town, or even the legal owners of the Vanner property.
	By that time, all four killers would have vanished into thin air.
	For now Kirkwood rolled down the window of the Explorer and enjoyed the feeling of the early morning wind on his face.  He thought about what would shortly be happening and felt himself growing rock-hard.
	Robeson was still going on about his preoccupation with Julie Winnfried, how her abduction from Walker’s might have been a mistake.
	The police had found Julie’s Saturn in the parking lot there.
	“Forget it, man,” Kirkwood replied.  His tone was soothing and seductive. After all he was the consummate real estate salesman.
	“What’s done is done.”
	His eyes were narrow heartless slits as he watched the road ahead flanked by trees, dappled by pools of early morning sunlight that streaked by on the hood of the black pickup.
	“We’re gonna have ourselves a goddamned sweet weekend, my man...What the fuck are you worryin’ about?  The cops are clueless buddy.  Clueless.  Two fine upstanding citizens like us? C’mon, Bill.  We are the last fucking people they would ever look at.  Besides, things get too hot and we’re outta here.  In case
you hadn’t noticed there are five million bucks in that bank in the Cayman Islands under our little corporate logo.  We can buy new identities and...adios amigo...poof! Presto and shazam! Set up operations anywhere in the world.”
	Robeson did begin to feel better.  Stan always had that effect on him.
	It was Stan that had talked him into the warehouse deal with Kessler. 
	The two men glanced knowingly at each other and laughed.
	“Shit,” Robeson commented. “You can sell ice to an eskimo, you motherfucker.”
	“Maybe not,” Kirkwood reflected. “But if I had to I would sure give it a try.”
	They laughed again.
	A year later, after a savage week of rape and slaughter, after the burial behind the Vanner warehouse of the last females to be slaughtered there, both men would ride out to Whitehall Landing and climb aboard Kessler’s yacht, presumably to celebrate their latest exploits.
	Out in the Atlantic, beyond sight of land, Kessler and the parolee from
Harris state penitentiary, having come to the conclusion that the best partners are silent partners, would shoot both Stan Robeson and Bill Kirkwood in the back of the head, gangland style, and push them off the boat into the dark murky ocean.

11. Using Julie 
 (Saturday 11AM)

	Long endless hours drift by.
	Julie huddles against the fading warmth of the child chained to the wall.
	Empty gnawing hunger and thirst have taken their toll on her.  She has no clue as to how long she has gone without food or drink.  Sharp stomach cramps
assault her in waves sometimes making her gasp and bend and clutch at her 
belly.
	Kneeling, she puts her chained arms around the child’s hips and hugs her close, presses her cheeks to the child’s bare belly seeking comfort.
	In the darkness she can’t see Ann Rowen’s angelic litte face above her.
	The child is quiet now, no longer asking after her dead sister, breathing deeply in haunted pale sleep, her body cooling dangerously, wispy clouds of frost forming and fading around her nose and lips.
	The shapes of the dead women are wreathed with shadows.
	Julie and Ann Rowen, adrift in a torpor brought on by the intense cold, babble to themselves softly, mutter incoherently.
	Julie crumples to the floor and lies there half awake, disconnected, chained ankles kicking slowly, rattling, she half-dreaming she is running from the beast in the jungle again, her children screaming from somewhere up ahead in the dense undergrowth, vines, branches, thorned and razor-sharp tearing at her face and shoulders and arms and breasts.
	After some time she hears men’s voices outside the freezer door.
	Laughter.
	Then nothing.
	The door opens. A silouhette stands framed in the dim light.
	Then another.
	Hands seize her and a black blindfold is wrapped around her eyes.
	Her chained wrists are released and she is dragged from the freezer by her chained legs, her back and the palms of her numb hands dragging on the cold floor of the refrigerated chamber then on the stone floor of the warehouse.
	She hears bare feet padding on the floor beside her as she is pulled along.
	There are maybe three men with her but they do not speak and she cannot gauge their mood, only their intent, by the way in which they handle her.  A sense of dread tightens her belly as she whimpers.
	Maybe they have decided to finish her.
	She has the sense of being taken through a doorway into a larger room and then there are more men who whistle and jeer with enthusiastic anticipation as she is dragged in.
	Then she’s lifted roughly and tossed on to a bed.
	She feels the silk sheets against her skin and knows immediately it is the same bed Kessler raped her on hours (days?) before.
	Will they thrust their knives and spears into her now? Or will she be clubbed to death on the bed?
	She feels the mattress give as the men climb on to it from different directions all around her.  Rough hands roll her over on her belly and force her up on her knees. Their dank musky smell stifles her breath.
	There are more men now, a lot of them.
	“Fuck the pig,” a man’s voice growls.
	She can tell from his voice and from the other voices around her that some of the men are black.
	A long hard phallus of flesh is pressed against her exposed cuntslit.  Rough hands grab her hair. Her flesh throbs as it begins to heat up and thaw.
	“Sheeeit,” the man behind her sighs as he pushes deep into her womb. “Pussy’s freezin’ cold, man...Where’d you keep this bitch - in a refrigerator?”
	Laughter.
	“Open your mouth,” another voice growls from above her, the hands in her hair pulling her head upright as the man behind her grinds into her his
hard fingers digging into her hips. 
	“Bitch’s like ice.”
	She obeys without question or hesitation, her lips gaping for a moment before a slick shaft of manmeat is crammed into her mouth, choking her as it
stuffs her throat, one hand clutching her hair another around her neck, hot bitter taste of prick, smell of sweat and manstink dizzying her.
	Hard calloused hands squeeze her tits and grope her.
	They’re going to rape her and use her...what’s the word? Gangbang her.
	“Nice...fuckin’ sweet....beautiful....”
	The men urge each other on and trade places.
	“Warm ‘er up, Leon...”
	They begin to fuck her asshole and her cunt, sliding in and out of either hole, ramming and pumping her, splitting her open.
	“Not too tight - fits jez right -”
	Laughter.
	She doesn’t know how many of them there are.  She hears them all around them, feels their weight on the shifting mattress, smells their hot strong bodies as they joust and jostle for dominance over her. The one fucking her mouth keeps his position for a while.  Other cocks rub her cheeks. The hot musky stink of the men makes her gag. She is passed to another male who makes her lick his balls.
	“Lick me, bitch...yeahhh...lick...lick....”
	The room is hot, her ears buzz, her cheeks flush hotly, and she hears someone moving around the bed and a whirring sound.  She realizes they are videotaping the gangrape. She realizes that soon she too will be just a flickering image on a video screen just like the others, the ones hanging lifeless in the meat-locker, the ones buried out behind the warehouse, Kessler’s butchered victims.
	Strangely this realization is no longer horrific to her but almost welcome.
	Soon it will all be over.
	The long walk that began on Camille road that night years before will finally come to an end.
	She will be with Larissa soon.
	Red-headed Larissa with the blue teddy bear tatto on her shoulder.
	The level of excitement in her rapists begins to swell.
	Maybe they sense her surrender.
	They lay her on her back and plow into her.
	“Goddamn - I think the slut’s warmin’ up!”
	They sit on her face and rub their balls into her lips and mouth.
	They make her crouch on top of one man who stuffs her asshole full and deep and then the others take turns slamming into her cunt.
	They call her names and spit on her and slap her and fuck her violently.
	Both of her openings beging to burn and sting and bleed slightly from the numerous penetrations and the frenzied friction.
	She is nothing. A piece of human trash. 
	She knows it and she rides the cock in her ass like the whore she is.
	“Fuck me,” she groans. “Fuck me - hurt me - use me -”
	And they do.
	They use her and use her well.
	There is not much of a need to urge them on with words.
	The man she crouches on grips her from behind and bites her back and shoulders.  He groans with feverish pleasure between bites, his drool trickling down her shoulderblades and spine.
	She sobs brokenly as the bed creaks wildly, two cocks pushing against her lips and face, one long hard stabbing shaft buried in her cunt and the other in her asshole.  She hears the others jerking off, the wet slapping sound of eager erect cocks in their stroking fists. They call her names and laugh at her and exhort each other to greater sexual violence.
	“Fucking bitch...slam ‘er...that’s the way...yeahh...put it in there deep...”
	The video camera is close by, she can sense it focusing on her blindfolded face as she sucks cock her head turning from side to side, being pulled from
one prick to the other.
	Suddenly her head is yanked hard to the right, pulled back.
	“I’m gonna cum,” a black man’s voice grunts.
	“Yeah, Jay, cream the whore...give ‘er a face-full...”
	“Uh! Uhhh! Shhittt! Goddamm!”
	Hot thick spurts spatter her forehead and cheeks and mouth, across the blindfold cloth, like hot muddy raindrops.
	“Keep your mouth wide open!” a voice from the room calls out.
	It’s Kessler’s voice, the first familiar one she’s heard since being taken from the refrigerated chamber.
	She’s melting inside with the need to please Him.
	She is weak and in a daze knowing suddenly He is there, has been there all along, watching, participating. He was more than likely one of the three who came to fetch her, walking alongside as she was dragged blindfolded to the gangrape, never revealing his presence.
	She tilts her head back and keeps her mouth gaping.
	Warm tepid glops of cum squirt into her open lips.
	“Yeahh - yeahh - that’s it -” Kessler growls.  “Let ‘er have it...all of you...
let the fucking bitch have it....cum all over her....we’ll hang her by her waist from the ceiling...Jay, pull ‘er off the bed and bring her here.”
	She senses Kessler’s control over the men and that too excites her, transforms her fear into acceptance and subservience as strong hands seize her by one arm and one leg, drag her off the bed, pull her up on her feet. She stands uncertainly, her cunt pulsing wetly. All around her she hears the heavy breathing of the gang-bangers.  One of them reaches out to pull her blindfold off.
	The video lights blind her. The men are staring at her like hungry animals ready to close in for the kill.
	A chain dangles from the ceiling. A thick black leather strap, slightly discolored, with a big steel buckle on it hangs from the end of it.
	One of the men wraps the strap around her waist and buckles it tight.
	She does not struggle.
	Above her there is a mechanical ratcheting sound as the chain is pulled up by a motor.
	She leans back, lets herself be tugged off her feet slowly by the waist.
	Her head cranes backward. Dizzy, she sees the room upside down, the men’s legs around her as one of them puts metal handcuffs on her wrists.  Her wrists are cuffed to her ankles as she dangles in mid air suspended on the waist
strap.  The chain continues to lift her a few feet higher until her upside down face is level with the men’s cocks.  They continue to stroke themselves vigorously as they
circle around her.
	“Now...” Kessler calls out hoarsely, the video camera is closing in on her
upside down face. “Now...douse the bitch...give ‘er a sperm bath...”
	One by one each man steps up to thrust his big erection between her soft parted cum-smeared lips  to fuck her head and eventually eject hot stringy phlegmatic jissom spurts on her upside-down face, in her gasping mouth, in her willowy brown hair.
	They have been well paid, as always, to come to the old Vanner warehouse and participate in a video-taped gang rape.  Rarely their victim is young, inexperienced and unwilling.  More often than not they are fuck-sluts who comply with every demand the sadistic director requires.  This time, however, the subject is in an entirely different league.  Her body is marked by the stripes and purple bruises of several severe whippings, beatings and tortures and the men suspect that after they’ve finished with her, after they clean up and leave, there will be more. Much more.
	They are aware that she is not the kind of female that they are used
to subjecting to their abuse in most videos and that fact above all others
makes their sexual excitement deeper and more intense. This bitch is not a paid slut.  She is a real victim, a woman...someone’s wife, a mother, a daughter, vulnerable and human.  Some of the men have participated only once or twice in such events before and over the past few months Kessler has chosen only those least inhibited, most violent and misogyinistic members for this core group of gang bangers...men that would have no problem with raping even the youngest and most unwilling of victims, men that would have no problem with making the videos as real as Kessler wants them. Rootless men, cruel and heartless.
	These men will appear unmasked on the legal videos but never on the under the counter products.  They will not share in the knowledge of the slaughters, of the secret refrigerated chamber, of the graveyard behind the warehouse. Only Kirkwood, Robeson, Kessler and Riemann will have the unique privilige,  as hooded, unidentified, unrecognizable figures on the illegal snuff videos, of fulfilling the darkest wishes of predatory males.
	The gangbangers will represent legal and accepted violence for the majority of male customers for whom torture and murder would be inconceivable.  But for Kessler and his men the gangbangers would always be just foreplay to the intense human destruction that must inevitably follow.
	White streams of slimy sperm roll off Julie’s chin now.
	She drinks to slake her thirst, the tip of her tongue spreading the fluid all around her dry lips.
	The third banger to step up to her is a rough looking latino with dark brown skin, bald, with a leering mustached face. For him she is like the women he has seen in the shopping malls in the expensive shops, in the high-priced restaurants in the city, in the upscale book stores and perfume shops browsing, living the soft cushy life he has seen only at a distance, far from his own harsh ghetto reality.
	First he slaps her face hard. Twice. Then, while her head is still reeling from the blows, he shoves his thumbs in her mouth, the sides of her lips pinched between thumb and forefinger of either hand, stretched as he pulls her head to his prick.
	Out in the real world a woman like this would have never even looked in his direction...She’s a clean, intelligent, white suburban woman.  The kind that drive past his dangerous neighborhood quickly with locked doors not looking in either direction. The kind that think of him as nothing more than a nuisance.
	“Dirty - stinking - puta -” he whispers hatefully, vindictively, as her mouth closes tightly around his shaft, his fingers in there too, her nose up against his big hot balls.
	He slaps her tits and his hips thrust in tight circles as if he were dancing a pulsing rhumba punctuated with pelvic jabs that send his thick member deep down her throat.
	She’s flushed and gasping for breath, brows knitted together, eyes wide as the camera goes for the closeup:
	Julie’s face and the dark-skinned guy’s ass.
	“Cum in her mouth, Gus,” Kessler orders. “Right in it, inside it...right in her fuckin’ throat, man. Give the pig what she deserves. Show ‘er who’s boss here.”
	She looks for Him, her Lord and Master, Owner of Her Universe but cannot see beyond the fierce halo of  the bright video lights, cannot see past the sturdy brown pillars of the brown man’s thighs.
	Still she knows her Master is there watching and recording her every move.
	Her hands close into fists, her body tenses as Gus makes growling animal sounds and his fingers squeeze into her mouth-skin.  He hurts her wanting to kill her and his hairy balls sweat into her eyes as he groans and shoots into her throat, his taste musky and rancid.  She chokes. Tries to swallow the flood of cum down but is unable to.  Gasping for breath she is held there as Gus continues to spurt in her.
	“That’s great...fuckin’ great...” Kessler whispers. “Fill the bitch UP!”
	“Yahhhhhh- uhhhnhhh!” Gus shouts.
	A gulp of his sperm lodges in her breathing tube and is sucked up her nose and out her nostrils.
	Gus laughs meanly.
	She arches her back against the suspended leather strap which bites into her skin and her handcuffed wrists jingle as her arms pull feebly against her
ankles.
	After what seems an eternity, Gus steps back to rub his huge cock in her cheeks, still spurting on her as a thick smear of his cum spills from her swollen
abandoned lips, down her cheeks into her eyes blinding her as she coughs
and chokes trying to breathe, bubbles of cum forming on her nostrils.
	The men cheer. They high-five each other. They high-five Gus.
	Already a long sleek black cock is being raised to Julie’s lips.
	“Yeah, Leon,” Kessler hisses encouragingly. “Stuff the bitch up.  Show ‘er what a piece of shit she is. Drown the fuckin’ cunt.”
	Leon’s balls are heavy, black, sweaty sacs that hang down right over her eyes blocking her upside down view of the men’s legs and feet and pumping
hands on booming pricks.  Kessler knows this visual, a white bitch blindfolded by a black man’s balls will sell lots of product.   Subtle racism among the majority of white males always promised to increase sales. What else would a woman who is used by a black man be but white trash, worthless and therefore deserving
of any violent abuse she got? Kessler always hired plenty of well-endowed blacks to fill the gangbang group quota.
	The thick salty burn of the previous latino gang-banger’s jiz still stings her
nostrils even as the hot ebony meatshaft slides past her uvula and lodges in her throat-hole gagging her, making her gasp for breath, hands and feet wriggling
against the chain-cuffs. She knows that this is the man that earlier raped her up the ass and she can still smell the fetid stench of her anus on his cock.
	Leon’s big black hands close around the back of her skull as he
slides in and out of her mouth heedless of her choking and wheezing, heedless of the long streams of tears pouring from her wide bloodshot eyes.
	Just like Gus before him he would think nothing of killing the pretty white woman if told to. He wouldn’t mind it one bit to put his big hands around her neck and choke the breath right out of her. In fact he has done so before, not for Kessler but for himself, though he’s never done jail time for it.
	“YE-ahh, bitch!” He shouts, his bald head craning back, his big powerful body rocking as he goes up on his toes, his fingers digging into her face on either side, curling under her ears as he pistons in and out of her wide mouth faster and faster. He likes fucking a white woman’s mouth, especially one that can’t or won’t struggle in any way, one that will just take all he’s got to offer.
	“YE-ahhh - YE-ahhh - YEAHHH!” He shouts dripping sweat and thrusting his hips hard forward as his balls contract to send gobs of spunk down her gullet.
	“Drink it down, bitch,” he grunts staring down at her suffering face. “Swallow my jizz - yeahh - all of it - every motherfuckin’ drop -”
	As he withdraws she barely has time to sob once before a fat white prick
invades her mouth hole.
	“Stupid fuckin’ cunt!” the crew-cut attacker snarls.
	Blonde and blunt-faced, this banger, his shoulders tattooed, wearing fingerless gloves, his biceps bulging as he grabs her tits, one in each leather-sheathed hand, slams his blue-veined, ten inch schlong right into the sperm-mess in the back of her throat left by the black and latino before him, thrusting rapidly and grunting to cum almost immediately, filling her mouth which over-spills down her cheeks, into her dangling hair and to the floor, his hard fingers gouging into her boobflesh.
	She chokes loudly, face flushed red, vomits bile as the remaining men circle around her laughing. Her vision blurs and she feels herself on the verge of passing out as the cruel agressors continue to fuck her mouth and pump hot cum-wads into her throat that ooze from her lips and blind her and trail into her hair and drip to the floor as she hangs there, blood rushing into her upside down head,
the black strap digging into her waist, her fisted hands tugging on the chain-cuffs, her feet arched, Kessler circling around her with the camera, going in for interminable close-ups as each gangbanger withdraws.  
	Some of the men, excited by the violent mouth-fuck and the willingness and cooperativeness of their victim come back for seconds, stepping up to her, jerking their cocks off desperately, shouting, going up on their toes, draining themselves on the inverted, suspended bitch, rubbing their spent pricks all over her scum-slicked cheeks and tangled, sperm-soaked hair.
	When they are all finished with her Kessler gives them one last instruction.
	One of them steps up to give the hanging victim a slight clockwise push and as she begins to spin slowly in mid air the gang-bangers raise their cocks.  
	Kessler goes in for the tight shot as the men begin to piss on Julie.
	Hot, amber streams catch glimmers of video light.
	Julie flinches as the first two or three steamy streams spatter against her face and shoulders and chest.
	The men laugh and whoop as they piss on her.
	Their urine is hot and stinking on her face, blinding her, streaming into her brown hair soggy and dripping.  As she spins the streams of piss spatter her sides and legs and feet, her pussy-slit, her back, stinging and burning into her welted flesh. Slowly she spins, helplessly, piss rolling down her calves to her chain cuffed ankles, down her arms to her hands, to drip off her finger tips and the heels of her feet and her toes and puddle on the floor.
	Finally the gangbangers finish with her and as previously instructed by Kessler they leave the room.
	She hears their bare feet padding up the stairs into the main floor of the warehouse, hears their their derisive comments about what they’ve just done to her, talking about her as if she’s already ceased to exist, their insensitive laughter fading as they move away.
	Kessler continues to tape her as she spins slowly in mid-air soaked in
cum and piss, sobbing softly in humiliated defeat.
	She notices that there are two other men standing in the shadows across the room watching. They have been there all along.
	She looks up to see Kessler positioning the camera back on the tripod aimed down at her face as he reaches out to stop her from circling.
	“I want one more thing from you now,” he says as he pulls on a black hood over his head and steps up to her raising his slightly tumescent cock to her face.
	“Keep your mouth wide open while I piss in it...mmmm....good...that’s right...good pig...”
	He begins to urinate as he moves in on her, his cock coming right up to her mouth.  His piss circles her red lips and spills down her urine-slimy face.
	“Keep it wide, wide open...yeahh...that’s nice...stupid whore...wide...don’t fucking close it...pig....that’s right...take my pissing cock in your throat...yeah,
you can do it...mmmm...that’s nice....good fuckin’ pig...”
	Gradually he slides his shaft into her scummy mouth, the sizzly stream
of urine gurgling in  her throat then up into her nostrils as he grabs her head,
piss streaming out her nose as she gags.
	“Swallow!” he snarls at her, slightly bent, glaring down at her.
	“Swallow it down!”
	She looks up into his swollen ball-sacs over the edge of his manshaft buried in her lips now and does as she is told, swallowing the piss right from his cock as fast as she can before more of it flows up her nostrils and spews from her lips.
	Its heat travels into her belly and she fights to keep from vomiting it back up.
	The two men watch intently from the shadows.
	“That’s right,” Kessler snarls. “That’s where you belong and you know it.This is all you’re good for you piece of shit whore...You’re nothing but a goddamn toilet...a toilet pig...drink my piss, you goddamn  toilet scumbag....”
	She makes a pitiful whiny sound in her throat as she drinks her Master’s hot waste, struggling to keep it from drowning her, praying that he will finish quickly.  But Kessler takes his sweet time having abstained from draining his
bladder for hours, saving himself for just this moment, enjoying the sensation of release and the deep surge of sadistic pleasure that forcing this slave to gulp down his urine gives him.
	As he finishes he pulls out of her mouth to wipe his still spurting piss-slit on her cheeks and across her pretty eyebrows and to dry himself off in her hair.
	He watches her breathe in widemouthed gasps, then, jerking off slowly, he pushes his balls against her dripping lips.
	“Lick,” he grunts.
	She obeys.
	It doesn’t take long for her teasing tongue to bring him to full aching erection.
	“Tell me what is mine.”
	“- ghhm - M-my body is yours - My heart - my h-heart is yours -”
	“Keep licking - go on - what else?”
	“ - mmhh - Master - m-my blood - my blood is all yours...my blood...”
	“What else, bitch? What above all is mine?”
	“ Ohgg god Mm-master - my soul - my soul above all is yours - all yours - all yours- all yours -”
	The men across the room grunt approvingly.
	Kessler lets her work him up and she does so without any further prompting from him, breathy gasps and urgent moans escaping her swollen lips as she licks at his hard hanging ball-bags, at his strong thighs, at his steel hard shaft.
	“That’s right,” he moans softly, stroking himself languidly, spreading his legs wide to give the suspended woman full access. “I own you. Now get me good and hard, you bitch....good and hard for the kill...”

12. Mara’s Final Flight
(Saturday 10 PM)

	Time blurred.
	For a while the video lamps were turned off.
	The room cooled down.
	The bloody corpse-ghost Larissa called to her from the foggy woods.
	But then there was harsh brightness again.
	Movement.
	The men were video-taping once more. The two men who had stood watching from the shadows had come forward to join Kessler.
	Even though they were masked she recognized them then as they stepped into the blaze of light.
	Bill Kirkwood and Stan Robeson, the men from Seabrook.
	She had lost track of some of the tortures but others were stamped vividly in her senses, indelibly in her wounded body.
	The three of them, now hooded in black masks, raped her after the gang-bangers had gone, after Kessler made her deep-throat his pissing cock.
	First, Robeson and Kirkwood had simply watched for a while as Kessler hung her by her ankles, right after he’d used her for a toilet, and whipped her for what seemed like an eternity with a wooden cane.
	Methodically.
	Savagely.
	Taking his time after each terrible stroke.
	Swinging across her piss-soaked flesh with all his strength.
	He put new deep hot welts all over her, down her legs all the way to her heels, all across her back and belly and tits, making her howl and sob wildly, circling around her. He’d then lowered her to the puddle of urine on the floor, buckled a big red ball gag around her mouth, grabbed her by the hair and forced her to crawl over to the bed where they all had a fresh go at her.
	The scarlet welts made her skin sensitive to their grabbing hands.
	They punched and slapped her while they fucked her, one of them holding the camera and taping the action while the other two worked her inhumanly.
	She had an unfocused memory of smoke smouldering up from an electric hot-plate across the room as Kirkwood throttled her, her hands leather-cuffed behind her, she lying on her back on the bouncing mattress, his steely fingers around her neck, his hard meat up her sore asshole, her thighs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back. 
	Kessler and Robeson were across the room.
	Kirkwood rose up, pushed off her, letting her legs tumble back on to the bed.
	Nearly a dozen steel pins, each two inches long, were laid out on the edges of the hot plate and all three men had thick work gloves on.  They yanked her up off the bed and hung her by her scraped bleeding wrists.  They took their time, each taking their turn, one pin at a time, holding her welted tits gently, lifting the mammary by the nipple between thumb and forefinger of one hand, the glowing pin in the other hand as they looked at her gagged face, smiling.
	“Let’s hurt the scumbag,” Kessler said hoarsely.
	“Give your Masters your pain, cunt.”
	The memory of the burning hurt was clear.  The fading smell of piss in the room. Each long burning shaft of steel a silver spear-tip of agony buried to the hilt in her hanging tit-meat, the last two taking her to the edge of consciousness, each swollen nipple perfectly pierced and bisected by sizzling hot metal, her flesh singed, burned, smoking hot and stinking as she screamed raucously at the ceiling through the big red gag, her lips pulled back as she bit into the ball, sweating, screeching.
	When they yanked the pins out of her tits she cried and bled.
	They licked up her blood, bit her swollen pierced nipples, slapped her bloody paps and punched them.  Then they let her down on the bed again.
	They torture-fucked her viciously, punishing her with their big hard cocks and never cumming, just ramming her and slamming her,  filling her pitilessly, sometimes choking her, or pressing her down into the smelly, sweat piss and blood-soaked satin sheets, or sitting on her face, stifling her so that she could not breathe.
	She did not rebel or fight them in any way. Her tearfilled eyes did not even search for their mercy any longer. Her blood-pierced tits smeared the bed.
	There was no struggle left in her, no eye contact with her abusers.
	She was conquered and defeated.
	She was an empty cum- and piss-bucket for her hooded masters to use as they pleased.
	She was their fuck-toy.
	She no longer belonged to herself, had no say in her fate.
	She belonged to Kessler and his men. They were her Masters.
	And they were savage with her, calling her names, grunting like animals as they assaulted and violated her already severely violated body.  They spared no cruelty and held back no punches with her, literally.
	This was consummate sexual injustice, a weak, gagged, helpless, bleeding, humiliated female and three powerful, cruel bitch-killers, melting together in a fierce embrace of sado-masochistic beauty.
	“Jesus,” Kirkwood gasped as he thrust his prick deep into Julie’s red-rimmed butthole. She knelt facing away from him straddling Robeson whose cock was hilted in her dripping cunt.
	“This bitch’s puttin’ me in a real killing mood.”
	“Ye-ahh,” Robeson agreed.  “I think we should bring that little shaver out of the meat locker too and take her down - uhnnhh! What do you think, Mike?”
	Kessler circled around the two men with the videocam as they fucked Julie.
	“Hmm. Ann Rowen.,” he said, his voice slightly slurred. “Her sister, Jessie, was a real nice kill.”
	“Yeah, well,  I’d like to take the little cunt down myself...privately... if you guys don’t mind,” Kirkwood proposed.
	“Really?” Kessler smiled behind the whirring video-cam.
	“Yeah - uhh - this fuckin’ bitch’s put me in the mood for some baby twat.”
	Kessler laughed.
	“Shit, you’re always in the mood for baby twat,” Robeson chuckled.
	“I don’t think it’ll bother Stan or me if you tear that little angel to shreds all by your lonesome, Bob,” Kessler added. “Hell, there’s plenty of whoremeat for Stan and I to work on while you’re busy with her. But right now I think we should do that chunky little stripper slut I got me from Whitehall.”
	He pressed his lips together concentrating as he zeroed in for the cam-shot of Julie’s double penetration, asshole and cunthole stretched and filled with stabbing cockmeat. 
	Julie grimaced and grunted bit into the rubber ball gag as the men fucked her.  She heard their words and was deeply shaken by the atrocious depth of their brutality.  She remembered the child in the refrigerated chamber and knew that Kirkwood would be merciless with her. That the men could speak so casually about such terrible desires even as they battered and used Julie sexually, talking as if she counted for nothing, as if she were not even there while they filled her with their cocks, that even more than the beating the torture and the raping destroyed her inside, hollowed her out.  Julie didn’t know who the new woman Kessler was talking about could be though she had a vague memory of seeing other captured women somewhere in the warehouse, in what appeared to be some kind of cell.
	“Oh yeahh,” Robeson mused as he gripped Julie’s thighs and rammed his cock to the hilt in her slobbering pussyhole. “...that fuckin’ stripper whore - ahhh - I’m sure she needs killing -”
	“All cunts need killing,” Kessler growled.
	“That’s for goddamned sure,” Bill Kirkwood concurred.  
	The thought that the little angel in the refrigerated chamber would be his after all three killers butchered the stripper made him thrust into Julie’s ass with relentless savagery.

	The stripper, Mara Lane, was, in fact, one of three young women Julie had briefly seen captive downstairs in the warehouse cellar holding cells. 
	Kessler had kidnapped Mara a couple of nights earlier, on Thursday, after stalking her briefly. 
	Her picture on the billboard of the strip club had caught his attention a month earlier and he’d gone inside to watch her dance - sensual oval-shaped face, purple lips, black finger and toe nails, meaty thighs and wide hips, swirling gothic tattoes on her white shoulders flexing as she moved.   
	She was a perfect slaughter slut, just perfect, providing a delicious compliment to the slender young big-titted blonde and the saucy redhead already slated for sexual killing, awaiting execution in the Vanner warehouse cellar.
 	In the dawn hours of Thursday , needing a change of pace from the breaking of Julie, Kessler had waited in the van in the alley in Whitehall near the young stripper’s apartment.  When Mara Lane came home from work and stopped to unlock her building door he sneaked up behind his target, cupped the chloroformed rag around her nose and mouth and dragged her to his van, the backs of her red high-heel sandals trailing noisily on the cracked sidewalk.
	In the van he’d ripped the silky blouse and tight short skirt off the half-conscious brunnette, tied her up, gagged her with the cotton panties he sliced off her, and unzipped his jeans to pull out his prick. He’d raped her hard and cruel, taking almost an hour with her, belly and tit-punching her while he rammed himself in to the hilt in her juicy pink slit.  After the violent onslaught she’d put up no resistance whatsoever and lay on her torn disheveled clothes letting him do as he pleased. Then he’d driven her to the warehouse, walked her down the narrow dark stairs, and dragged her into the holding cell area in the cellar while the other captives, a blonde and a redhead had looked on, dirty, gagged, bruised, whipped, chain-cuffed spreadeagled to the wall.  
	The fourth captive, the oriental girl-child who would soon have her throat slit open for Kessler’s cock, still hung then from the metal bars of an adjacent cell by her roped wrists, her little feet off the ground, her terrified almond-shaped eyes
following the killer as he shoved Mara Lane into the room naked except for her red high-heel shoes.
	Kessler had peeled his clothes off slowly as Mara waited leaning against the the cell, her well manicured fingers wrapped around the metal cell bars.  Then he’d released the two women  from their chains that held them against the wall and he’d ordered all three victims, the blonde, the redhead and the stripper he’d just captured to kneel on a low wooden table that was pushed up against the wall of the cellar.  	This table, made of sturdy unfinished plywood planks, had been designed by the killers to position a female on hands and knees for comfortable penetration by a  standing male.  Kessler’s women obeyed silently, the blonde and the redhead cautiously emerging from the cell as the killer opened the creaking door, climbing on to the table from the right and the stripper, who was still whimpering softly, from the left.
	 The women had assumed the fuck-me position, instructed by Kessler to spread their thighs wide apart as they bent forward submissively presenting themselves, and he’d stroked himself slowly relishing the sense of power over them. Even though the table was fitted with steel manacles bolted on its surface, none of the women would have to be shackled; there would be no attempt to escape or struggle.
	While the three victims waited in the humiliating doggie position, their full round rumps raised, offering two pairs of dirty bare feet and one set of high-heel soles, Kessler had released the oriental child from her suspended bondage on the cell bars and placed her on her knees in front of him, gripping her silky black mane in his fist, dragging her along the floor as he stepped up behind the bent-over females on the table. 
	He’d slid his ramrod hard cock deep into each of the three women, moving from one to the next, pulling the oriental child under him to lick his asshole and balls as he pistoned in and out of each victim, his prick soon coated with their
cunt-slime and the child’s spit. Defeated and surrendering to his fuck-thrusts
the women had moaned and wept. Kessler allowed their sounds and movements
to work him up.  He’d smiled and leaned his head back as he slammed himself into the postrate slaughterwhores.  He’d remembered how he and Robeson had once nailed a woman to this table taking turns to fuck her up her ass while Kirkwood had burned her eyes out with a hot poker.  The thought of that victim’s pleading screams had made him rub his cock on the moist hot pussies of the crouching captives and force as much of it as he could into the child’s tiny quivering mouth. The smell of the fucked women, of their penetrated sex organs like over-ripe fruit, had driven him nearly to orgasm.
	He’d made the little girl lick his hanging balls while he gripped the bitches by their hips and forced himself up their tight shitholes.
	He’d told them then that they were all there for his pleasure, that they
were no longer free human beings but worthless meat, just as he’d done with Julie, just as he did with every slavewhore whose misfortune it was to become his prey.  He told them he expected nothing less from them than complete surrender to his will and that they could expect only humiliation, subservience and pain from then on.  Their lives belonged to him, to do with as he and his men pleased, he’d told them slowly filling their assholes with his cock, hurting them, fucking them savagely.  In no uncertain terms he told them to expect the most devastating circumstances and then he’d stepped back and ordered them to get into the cells, the redhead and the blonde in one, the stripper in the other and he tied the little girl on her knees by her neck to the cell-bars.
	Leaving the terrified females in the cellar, their fuckholes sore from his raping,  he’d gone on to keep working on Julie, fired up by the violent kidnapping and the sadistic sex.  So fired up that the need for girlblood had hummed in his head and he’d had to return to the holding cell to fetch the oriental child, tying her wrists behind her and walking her out to the killing room.
	The unfortunate eight year old had then died for him, hanging by her feet, knife-sliced and bleeding on his cock as Julie had watched pleading for his mercy. 	But that had barely satisfied him.
	Now he was ready to kill again and knew Robeson and Kirkwood were too.
	The weekend was building to a fierce climax for all of them.

	“Ahhh, yeah,” Robeson growled staring up into Julie’s eyes as he held her by her tits and rammed his cock upward into her feeling Kirkwood’s prick grinding in and out of her asshole and pressing against his own rod of hard flesh through the flesh-membrane between rectum and vagina. Double-fucking a slut was one of his favorite slaughter-foreplay pursuits, especially a slut that had been emotionally and physically broken like Julie.
	Kirkwood grunted.  The sensation of the other man’s penis pistoning against his own inside Julie’s warm body was delicious.
	“Unhhh - filthy stinking stripper cunt -” Robeson snarled staring into Julie’s submissive face. “I hate fuckin’ strippers -We can tie this pig to a post and she can watch us do the teasin’ whore...Whattaya say, Julie? Wanna see us kill some sleazy stripper bitchmeat? Huh? Wanna watch us do what we do best?”
	Dizzy, weak and sore from the welting Kessler had given her after
drowning her in cum and urine and from the hot piercing of her breasts Julie could only gasp weakly, drool trickling from the edges of her mouth around the big red ball-gag, as the two men fucked her pitilessly.  Her dark eyes were glassy as she looked down at Robeson. She heard what he was saying but it did not register.  	Her mind was now again almost disengaging itself from the terrible reality around her.
	Eventually, after taking their fill of her, Robeson and Kirkwood hauled her off the bed betwen them and half-carried her to one of the wooden columns in the killing room.
	They forced her to kneel, her legs straddling the post, her back against it and they rope-tied her roughly to it by her neck.  They tied her ankles together and tied her wrists behind her.  Her head sagged as Kirkwood and Kessler left the room.  She heard the sounds of struggle not far away and a woman’s high pitched voice and then she was suddenly brought sharply to attention by a stinging slash across her nipples. 
	Robeson stood over her with the wooden cane Kessler had used on her as she’d hung upside down earlier.
	“Bitch,” he spat and whipped her tits again.
	Tears welled up in her eyes. Some of the pin wounds that had scabbed began to bleed freshly.
	“We’re gonna tear you apart.”
	And again he slashed across both her pendulous, already welted, already pierce-wounded, boobs, her gagged mouth gaping in a choked off sob.
	“- give you what you deserve.”
	And then the young purple-lipped stripper, Mara Lane, was dragged into the killing room between Kessler and Kirkwood, crying, yelling, struggling.
	The woman was naked except for fire-engine red, high-heel platform sandals with ankle straps that thunked against the warehouse floor.
	Robeson instantly turned away from Julie tossed the wooden cane aside and moved toward the pretty brunette.
	Between the three naked hooded men they began to punch and slap the hapless female whose wrists were cuffed behind her.
	Hot trickles of blood dripped down Julie’s breasts from Robeson’s vicious stroke with the wooden cane and from the re-opened pin wounds as she watched the beating of the stripper.
	In a matter of seconds the victim had been brought to her knees under
a hail of vicious blows across her face and abdomen.  Then she was taken to the bed and a violent three way rape ensued. 
	 Robeson and Kessler lifted the young woman between them as Kirkwood sat on the edge of the bed.  They lowered her on to his upright cock which he forced up into her tight asshole. When he had fully penetrated and she sat on his legs, the toes of her red shoes pointed upward,  Kessler came around and thrust his throbbing meat right up into her shaved pussy. Then, knife in hand, Robeson climbed on the bed and put the blade to her throat as she pleaded and sobbed.  At knifepoint he made her take his prick in her mouth and begin to bob her head his fist clutching her curly brown hair.
	Julie watched the crude rape of the young woman.
	Mara was now where she herself had been only moments before, at the center of thrusting masculine lust.
	The violence in the masked men escalated quickly. They weren’t going to waste much time on this young slaughterbitch.
	Robeson drew the sharp knife blade across Mara’s bobbing tits making her
squeal shrilly.  Blood trickled down the front of the stripper’s body.
	Julie felt her own tit-blood, drawn by Robeson’s wicked slash, slowly oozing down to the top of her mons.  She bit her into the rubber gag and swooned dizzily as her pussy began to throb hotly.
	“Stab her!” Kessler shouted.
	Robeson complied pushing the tip of the knife into Mara’s tattoed shoulder stepping back pulling his cock out of her mouth as the stripper screamed.  He rubbed his cock on the wailing woman’s face and then slammed it back into her purple lip-stick painted mouth as he pulled the knife out.
	Julie’s hands opened and closed behind the post, she struggled weakly against the ropes.  
	She watched Kessler lean in to lick the blood from Mara’s tits as he fucked her.
	Kessler’s back rippled beautifully, every muscle flowing with the driving
energy of his strong masculine body.  His hips thrust and jabbed as he fucked
the hapless stripper.
	Julie’s heart beat faster as she watched her handsome Master and his companions fully engage themselves in the destructive task.
	“Pleeease!”the woman keened as Robeson stepped back.
	Then her head slid backward and her lips stretched wide in a yelp of
agony as Robeson plunged the blade into her right breast and drew it out again.
	Blood spurted from the stab wound as Robeson grabbed her by her head and pushed his prick down her throat again.
	They were going to kill the woman, Julie now fully realized. Right there in front  of her - and incredibly it was making her wet. If only she could touch herself, touch and rub and calm the shameless throbbing heat in her cunt.
	Kirkwood bit Mara’s bloody shoulders and neck, his eyes scowling under the slitted hood, and his hands gripped her hips as he jammed himself up her asshole, her hands bound behind her resting on the top of his hairy belly.
	Kessler moaned as he dove down to cup Mara’s bleeding tit in his mouth, his cock pistoning in and out of the young stripper’s cooze.
	“Give me the fuckin’ knife!” he told Robeson.
	Smiling cruelly as he looked down into the terrified and beaten female face impaled on his cock Robeson passed the knife down to the man Julie now
worshipped as her one and only God.
	From her kneeling bondage, the pretty middle-aged mom drooled, gasped for breath, choked by the tight rope around her neck that kept her head against the post and by the stifling red ball in her mouth, and watched as her Master gripped the killing tool, raised the young stripper’s left leg by her ankle and began to score deep knife-cuts in the screaming female’s calve, right to left,  from the heel to the knee-hollow.
	Robeson took Mara’s neck in both his hands to choke the screaming woman and keep her from chomping down on his cock.  As Kessler cut her he strangled her and Kirkwood sunk his teeth into her bleeding shoulders biting deep into the swirling gothic designs.
	Julie dug her nails into her palms and tried to rub her thighs together
within the limited parameter of movement her bondage afforded.  The choked off
squeals of the raped bleeding woman were exciting to her, more exciting,
more insanely arousing, than anything she had ever experienced.  Free of all the inhibitions she’d imposed upon herself since Larissa’s death Julie’s masochistic need now turned in and fed upon itself like a  voracious fire in search of fuel.  At that moment she would have done anything, ANYTHING, to trade places with the woman on the bed.  She longed to feel the sharp cut of her Master’s blade, longed
to be penetrated, bitten, violated. Longed above all to be used. Heedlessly and brutally used like the female animal she know knew she was.  No more running from the truth. No more furtive, discrete encounters on the internet. No more pretense and falsity.  The superficial Julie was falling away.  She was shedding that skin, that verneer of civilized behavior and underneath was a mindless slut, hungry for self-immolation, starved for brutal male attention, desperate for something that was as far from human love as it was possible to get.  
	She heard herself say the words, her voice muffled and distorted by the ball gag.  
	Softly at first then louder and louder, almost without realizing it until she was nearly shouting at the men across the room, gasping for breath between words, her face flushed red, her neck tautly stretching against the strangling rope strands.
	“Kill her! - Kill her! - Oh ghodd, killlll herrrr!”
	“Yeahh!” Kessler roared triumphantly looking back at her over his shoulder.
	Julie basked in his demonic glare. She hungered for his wicked eyes.
	When he turned away she missed them and she focused instead on his broad back, on his hard buttocks, on his big strong thighs, on his hanging balls.
	He was stabbing Mara’s thigh now, putting half the blade in the smooth meat.
	Men had watched Mara dance in the strip club.
	They’d watched those long beutiful legs kick and shimmy and spread, those red open-toed sandals gleaming in the multicolored lights.
	They’d been aroused and excited by her though unable to act, powerless.
	Now, Kessler avenged himself for them.  For all the men who’d watched knowing they could never have her, knowing she was just a tease, their hands longing to seize that flawless skin, those strong muscular thighs, those
slender ankles.
	He slammed the knife into Mara’s thigh making her scream as Julie watched enthralled. 
	Mara’s hot blood spurted on the killer’s belly as he sank into her cunt.
	“Filthy goddamn slut!” he snarled.
	Larissa too had been tease, Julie thought...a little prick-teasing bitch.
	“Kill her!” Julie yelled.
	Violently rallied by Julie’s rudely mindless shouts Kessler drew the sharp blade back and forth across Mara’s meaty thigh marking and disfiguring it forever then he raised the stripper’s right leg and began to work on that one as well.
	The young victim’s blood splattered the sheets on the bed and the floor.
	Kessler sliced across the exposed heel of her right foot.
	Kirkwood grabbed and held her ankles way up above her head from behind, his cock hilted in Mara’s asshole.
	Robeson stepped off the bed as Kessler stabbed deep into Mara’s leg muscles.
	“Yes...oh God, yes! Kill....kill her...” Julie was shouting into the ball gag, not aware of Robeson until he was standing right over her.
	Without warning Robeson drew back and punched the kneeling woman in the forehead snapping her head back against the post.
	“Awwwhhh!” Julie gasped, her eyes going out of focus as her head
bounced back down.
	Robeson grabbed her silky mane and yanked her head back up.
	“Suck me,” he growled meanly yanking the red ball from her mouth so that it dangled around her neck as he pushed his cock into her face.
	She obeyed instantly opening her mouth wide to accomodate the solid-bodied killer’s rampant prick, she still groggy from his punch.
	As soon as she did he filled her right down into her throat clutching her head in both hands to slamfuck her face, ramming her head against the post,
his belly smothering her, her head swimming.
	Years before, as a young man, Robeson had been on the Seatown High School football team as a linebacker.  Over the years he had lost some of his physique but there was still plenty of hard muscle left in him.
	“Goddamn bitch,” the killer ranted holding on to the post, his legs apart, his strong hips thrusting, he looked down to watch Julie gag on him. “Goddamn
worthless fucking bitch...you want her to die? Huh? You want that teasing whore dead? Yeah? Is that what you want? Uhh! Well that’s gonna happen... ahh...yeahh...its gonna happen, slut...But what she’s gonna get is a walk in the park compared to what you’re gonna get - I can guarantee you that.”
	He sneered meanly, contemptuously, and she looked up into his hideously distorted features.  His cheeks and jaw were stubbly and sweaty, his chestnut colored eyes narrowed to bloodshot slits under the black hood.
	He was no longer a man but some kind of demon to her, an infernal
creature that only vaguely looked human.  There was no longer any resemblance to the man that had ordered breakfast or lunch at Walker’s, the man who
smiled from behind the cash register at the Amoco station.  That man had been taken over by some alien creature that hated her and wanted her dead.  In fact the whole world as she had known it only days before had been swept away as if it had never been.
	This world was a place of savagery and suffering and she had plunged into it headlong and she was drowning in it, losing her mind to it. She was gradually coming to understand that this was where she ultimately belonged. Incredibly, this was the place she’d been longing for her whole life, a place where she was nothing but flesh for her male masters.
	Robeson fucked Julie’s mouth letting her take him to the very edge of orgasm, going up on his toes and closing his eyes, his hands gripping the hard wooden post as Kessler continued to stab the thighs of the stripper on the bed. Mara’s desperate babbling screams behind him and Julie’s breathless moans down in front of him as she sucked, taking him in her throat, right to the hilt, her nose in his pubic hair, her breath gagging and catching, made Robeson’s balls feel full to the point of bursting.  For a moment he thought of his wife Sally.  He made a snarling animal noise that forced Julie’s eyes to widen as she looked up at his hooded face.  At that moment Robeson knew he would eventually bring Sally to the warehouse and kill her there.  There was no turning back from it:  His wife, the mother of his children, would have to die like a whore for his pleasure.
	The need for the spilling of her life was absolutely irrefutable.
	Reluctantly he stepped back and took his engorged prick from Julie’s swollen lips.  He pulled the ball gag up from around her neck and pushed it back hurtfully deep into her mouth.
	By the time he turned from his kneeling captive Kessler and Kirkwood already had Mara off the bed and lying on the floor on her belly.  The stripper’s blood was pooling under her.
	Kessler had gone to the crank on the wall to lower the suspension chains that had previously held Julie inverted for the oral gang rape.
	“Arms and legs,” he instructed.
	Kirkwood and Robeson buckled the leather cuffs around Mara’s wrists and ankles and as soon as they were done Kessler began to wind the crank lever in the opposite direction. Painfully, the bleeding beaten stripper was lifted upward and soon floated nearly seven feet off the floor.
	In hypnotic amazement Julie looked up at the suspended woman who hung in mid air like a nude daredevil skydiver.
	Kessler’s knife was buried in her belly.
	“I want to break ‘er,” Kessler stated flatly.
	All three killers stood in a semicircle looking at the suspended victim, jerking off.
	“How?” Kirkwood asked.
	“Augghhhh...”Mara gasped, head sagging, a mouthful of blood spilling from her quivering lips.
	Trickles of blood poured from the open toes of the bright red sandals.
	“By pulling her arms and legs in different directions.”
	“I like it,” Robeson whispered smiling. “Let’s hook ‘er up.”
	“Yeah,” Kirkwood asserted excitedly. “Let’s take this piggy apart.”
	Robeson strode quickly past Julie and cranked down the suspension chains from that side of the chamber while Kirkwood went to the opposite side and did the same.
	Then the two masked men went back to the center of the room to  reach up and re-attach the victim’s cuffed legs to the new chains.
	The unused, released chains swung like pendulums casting moving shadows on the floor and on Mara’s stabbed bleeding body.
	Now, Julie saw that when the killers began cranking the newly attached chains upward, each of the unfortunate victim’s legs, controlled by Kirkwood and Robeson from different sides, would be yanked in opposite directions while her arms, controlled by Kessler, could be made to remain in place, or be raised or lowered until her torment would reach some terrible excruciatingly agonizing climax.
	“Ghhwgg...”Mara choked as the men began turning the cranks slowly.
	More blood spilled from her mouth and the cuts and wounds dripped on the floor below.
	“Wait!” Kessler warned.
	He left the crank on the wall and went to the videocam which he now aimed upward at the suspended female.
	“We don’t want to miss this shot...do we, Julie?” he asked as he stepped away from the camera, looking over at his gagged kneeling captive as he made his way back to the crank.  There was a dark red bruise mark on her forehead where Robeson had punched her.
	“Gghhmm,”Julie moaned softly, envious of the terrible attention the killers were about to lavish on the half-dead stripper.  She watched Kessler as he turned away, pining for him, longing to be crushed, breathless under him and stuffed with his big cock.
	 As he returned to the crank she raised her face slowly up to look at Mara Lane.
	Again, just like when the oriental girl had been slaughtered in front of her, Julie would be the silent, helpless witness to male butchery and barbarity.
	Only now Julie had sunk several degrees lower.
	Now she wanted to watch, she needed to watch. And not only to watch but to long to trade places with the object of her attention, to be one with the hurting victim.
	Noisily, with loud ratcheting snaps, the men began turning the cranks.
	Mara’s pretty dark-haired head sagged and she suddenly glanced straight down into the dark eyes of the kneeling woman below. Her red-sandalled feet twitched.
	At fourteen Mara Lane had been taken by her twenty-two year old cousin, Gary and three of his friends up on the roof of the Brooklyn tenement where she lived with her step mother.  	
	Beautifully developed, alluring in tight shorts, skimpy halter top and high-heel sandals, the saucy little teenager had been lured up the stairs on a hot summer afternoon to be forcefully and viciously raped and sodomized by the four eager young perpetrators who easily overpowered her and pummeled her into submission.  It hadn’t taken long after that experience for her to move in a self-destructive way into prostitution and drugs.  
	Then at nineteen she’d started stripping and oddly enough the dancing had gotten her almost completely away from the johns.  In fact for three years now she had been able to stay away from the street life and the drugs and was just starting to find stability when Kessler had snatched her away in his van.
	Now she hung nine feet in the air in a killing room of the Vanner warehouse and a disheveled and badly beaten woman bound on her knees was looking up at her.
	“Uuwwhh...”Mara groaned and watched hot blood spill from her lips and down on the floor near the kneeling woman.  Her eyes pleaded with Julie’s, commiserated with her, shared the wordless pain of being a female victim. There was unfathomable mistery and longing in those big brown eyes, unanswered questions, unresolved injustice.
	The knife buried in Mara’s abdomen felt like a hot living thing and now with each ratcheting snap she was being drawn apart, opened, her stabbed bleeding legs kicking reflexively.
	“You ever tell anyone and we’ll kill you, bitch,” Gary had said that long ago summer day as he’d pounded her into the hot black asphalt of the roof.
	The others had stood around her jerking off.
	They’d watched her walk past them on the street when she’d gone to the grocery store on the corner, the exquisite flow of her flesh under the tight fabric of those jean shorts, the delectable balance of her small feet in the sexy strapless sandals, the smiling innocent/not-so-innocent eyes.
	Like all men, they wanted her and hated her.
	“C’mon, man!” one of them said. “Don’t hog that pussy - give us some -”
	“Fuckin’ little tease - trash whore!”
	They’d put her on her knees and tore her shorts and panties off her.
	She was crying by then and the eye-makeup was smeared all over her cheeks.
	The gravelly roof-asphalt tore her skin, scraped knees and elbows. She lost both pretty sandals in the struggle, one shoe falling over the edge to bang into
a garbage can into the alley below.
	But there was something....something she could not admit.
	“You know you fuckin’ like it, you little scumbag...yeh...you know you do...”
	...something she could not admit to herself because she would go mad but looking down at the kneeling woman now she saw herself on that roof...looking up into the eyes of the handsome brutal young faces of her rapists...looking up with longing.  Because there had been longing in her walk, in her subtle movements as she walked past them on the corner, a need to be...taken. And she saw that longing in the clear wide-eyed look of the kneeling woman now.
	Slowly Kirkwood and Robeson cranked Mara’s legs up and apart, lifting
her while Kessler studied the amount of tension in the suffering female’s limbs and kept still or turned the crank up or down one degree to adjust the angle
of her suspension.
	“Na-aahhggg!”Mara groaned twisting her face upward suddenly toward the ceiling. She was closer to the lights now, silver domed reflectors. And down there by the kneeling female was the other witness...the camera, whirring softly, capturing her final flight...and her killers too watching, controlling, supervising her twisted dance.
	She had been still in a chloroformed daze on the floor of Kessler’s van but had felt his pounding fists and his hard manmeat inside her and she knew by
the way he was treating her she would not live and she knew that it was no use
struggling, no use now as she gave and relaxed as the chains tugged her open.
And again her pretty head sagged down to look into Julie’s expectant face.
	To dance naked she’d learned to relax deeply and fall into herself, into the deepest sensual center of her warm living nakedness that the men hungered for and now she writhed slowly in this fatal dance hands clutching at space, blood
spilling from her.
	‘Watch me,’ her eyes seemed to tell Julie. ‘Watch me suffer - Soon it will be your turn.’

	(They love to be watched. To be the center of attention. They move and preen and prepare themselves for our eyes.  They draw us with their power.  The girls who dance in the strip bars, on the stage, above us, always above so that we are forced to look upward.  The lights play on their perfect skin. They have readied themselves for us, to show us their cunts, wide-legged, to use their seductive power as if saying - see, this could be yours, and this, and this too. And their mouths betray their excitement, swollen lipped whores relishing
the effect they have. It is this act of being watched that most arouses them, not the act of giving, but the act of pretending to give, of suggesting it and not fulfilling it.  They go back on the bargain, don’t they? They lay out the banquet table but won’t let us feast. But we will not stand for it.  We will make sure this dance is their last. We will bring them all down and waste them so that they will never, NEVER, use their power again. They will learn that only the male has power here. They will learn it with their last dying breath on the end of our killing cocks as we FEED on them.)
	A few more loud snaps of the cranks and suddenly Mara felt the knife blade begin to slide out of her as her belly was pulled taut.  Her hips had reached the end of their flexibility, her legs were now almost perpendicular to her frame.
For just the briefest moment she fought the pull of the chains, her limbs pulled to the limit.  Then she gave in again.
	“O-oo-ohh,” she gasped and bit her lip as the blade slid all the way out and
plummeted to the floor to clatter on the blood spattered concrete below.
	Kessler looked at the knife-slashed legs of the stripper as they began to twist beyond a ninety-degree angle to her body and he watched her face as she
now gave out a long shrill scream full of ecstatic female energy.
	He dropped her two notches.
	The red high-heeled sandals wriggled.
	“...ghmmmmmm....”Julie sighed.
	“Yessss,” Kessler whispered to himself.
	Mara’s left hip left its joint with a loud crack that made the men grunt with satisfaction.
	All of them were jerking off as they watched now, and as they cranked
slowly Mara’s right hip snapped and Robeson almost came.
	“Let’s hold ‘er there!” Kessler shouted.
	The cranks stopped.
	The men watched the beautiful broken woman writhe in mid air and scream silently, lips wide.  The wound in her belly had begun to split open and
bits of intestine had begun to spill from her.
	Julie pressed her thighs together.
	She hoped the woman would drip blood on her although she was not close enough for it.
	Led by Kessler the hooded cuntkillers now moved toward Julie and circled around her jerking off. They pulled the ball gag from her lips leaving it dangling around her neck.
	They took turns moving in and feeding her cockmeat and she complied eagerly licking them, sucking, while above  Mara Lane twisted in a contorted
red-shoe dance of anguish.
	All three of them closed in on Julie, stiflingly close, pushing their manmeat into her cheeks and mouth and hair.
	“Yeahhh,” Kessler groaned. “Get us ready for it...good and ready for it...”
	Then, again following Kessler’s lead, the three killers returned to the cranking levers.
	This time the ratcheting snaps came faster and Mara Lane’s screams exploded in shrill response as first one shoulder then the other was dislocated, her
body yanked upward, her head almost banging into the hot silver reflector,
the bright light blinding her like the sun on the roof of the tenement building
that long-ago day when she had been raped.
	Snap. Snap. Snap.
	Inexorably the chains yanked her in three directions at once, stretching her, deforming her, her belly wound stretched wide and her guts pouring out of her.
	Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.
	One arm broke in two and her right leg began to rip out of her right at the hip, skin tearing open.
	Julie stared enraptured, thighs pressed together and trembling, lips open, breath short and fast.
	She could see the stripper’s red-painted toes inside the open slitted tip of the red sandals curved upward.
	With a horrible tearing sound Mara Lane’s left leg ripped loose of her torso and a spurt of hot viscera shot down and spattered Julie’s face and chest.
	“Yeahhh!” Robeson shouted.
	The sensation of hot bloody woman-meat on her cheeks and tits made Julie gasp suddenly and she gave out a short sharp scream as the orgasm that had been building inside her, the first she’d been allowed to have since her capture, suddenly exploded.  A gush of hot fluid spilled from her pussy and down her bound thighs. She struggled to breathe but couldn’t.  It was as if suddenly, and by wanting it so badly, she had exchanged identities with the dying woman above her.  She could look down at the hooded killers turning the crank levers and feel her lungs being squeezed impossibly, rib-cage twisting, spine now snapping in two at the waist, intestines being ejected from her, squeezed out of her like goop from a toothpaste tube.
	She could look at herself splattered with blood and guts looking up and
gasping for air eyes wild and full of unrepressed longing.
	And finally it was too overwhelming to hang on to and she was losing
consciousness just as Mara began to die, just as Kessler began to crank down letting the broken young stripper suddenly drop, head first, slowly, while Kirkwood and Robeson cranked upward and the woman’s torso sprang free of her legs.
	Mara Lane’s wild inhuman death-shriek exploded and Julie slumped inertly, held up on her knees by the ropes that kept her against the post.
	What Julie would not see was the final cruel slaughter, the hooded men
taking the long steel javelins and closing in on Mara as she hung by her broken, dislocated arms, legless and dripping innards.
	Sneering, the men slammed their spears upward into the broken woman’s belly and chest finishing her with several hard deep fuck-thrusts of killing metal, ripping out their weapons and pushing them into woman-flesh repeatedly, again and again, raping the life from her just as other males had long ago raped her virginity from her on a hot tenement rooftop.
	Mara continued her death dance even then, weakly surrendering her life to her killers as they finally let her down to the blood- and gore-slimed floor to shoot off on her, leaving their killing instruments lodged in her broken ribs and
gashed-out abdomen.

13. Tim Takes It
(Sunday, 2 AM)
	
	Riemann parked the vehicle Warden Harper had provided, a ‘96 gray Ford Taurus, on the deserted street and made his way around to the back of the dark house. 
	The lawn was moist with dew which left his newly issued black patent leather shoes shiny wet as he moved to the phone box.  A faint white glow from the street-lamps beyond the house neighboring the rear yard was enough for him as he took the hunting knife from his knapsack and carefully cut the wire, taping both disconnected ends to the top of the metal panel box.
	He put the knife away and looked for access into the home.
	Thankfully there were no burglar alarms or motion detector lights. Seabrook was a small town where fear of crime was not yet a motivating priority.
	Getting in through the rear kitchen window was easier than he’d expected.
	Once inside he pulled his gun from the shoulder holster, took the noise-suppressor from his pocket and screwed it on the customized barrel.
	Quietly, stealthily, he moved past the Little Mermaid nite-lite on the wall of the hallway leading to the children’s bedroom in the Winnfried house, the Colt .45 with the cylindrical silencer attachment in his grip.
	He was sure warden Harper would not have liked his little impromptu adventure but there was no way Riemann could let this opportunity pass. 
	No fucking way.
	What he would do here tonight would make his visit to Kessler’s warehouse later so much more enjoyable. So much more - complete.
	What he would do here tonight was - necessary.
	Besides the killing of the pregnant black bitch and the rape-slaughter of  her aborted baby had brought him to a new fever-pitch of slaughter-lust.
	He stopped outside the main bedroom door and slithered his backpack off his shoulders to lay it quietly on the carpet.  A coil of thick rope dangled from the half open flap. 
	Riemann took a neatly folded plastic-cover tarp from the pack on the floor.  It had been the last item he’d purchased at a K-Mart thirty five miles south of Seabrook.
	Down the hall he could hear the soft rustle of the children breathing deeply.
	He could smell them and the smell made him hard.
	Before prison he had only killed young females.  Now, after being in lock up for so many years, he discovered his instincts had deepened and flowered.
He had a taste for children too, even little boy children.  His frontiers had
expanded.  He mused about just how far they had expanded as he peered into
the Winnfried’s bedroom.
	Tim Winnfried lay on the bed in his jockey briefs on his belly.
	The almost naked man too, now deeply aroused Riemann, something that years ago the killer would have believed unthinkable.
	Somehow he had become completely pansexual in his murderous desires, an equal opportunity killer, he thought humorously, or perhaps prison had opened latent needs in him that had always been there.
	And the man on the bed, Riemann noted, was not completely asleep but just in a slumber. As Kessler had told Riemann on the phone, Winnfried had reported his wife missing just twenty four hours earlier. It was unlikely that the concerned man would be in a real restful state of mind.
	Riemann tightened his grip on the silenced weapon, placed his finger on the trigger, and moved into the bedroom.
	On the phone earlier that day, Kessler had approved of Riemann’s plan, giving him the address of Julie’s home, but the man had acknowledged the danger involved if Riemann were to be caught.
	It was dangerous, Riemann thought now as he stood over Tim Winnfried, plastic tarp in one hand, the gun in the other.
	Very dangerous, Kessler had conceded.
	That’s why it felt so right.  That’s why it had to be done.
	He put the silenced barrel of the weapon to the man’s temple.
	Tim stirred.
	“Don’t fucking move, scumbag,” Riemann whispered.
	“Wh-what...?” Tim muttered, his face rising from the pillow to look back
at the source of the voice.
	“Keep your voice down and don’t fucking look at me. You’re gonna do what I tell you to do, if you want to live.”
	“Oh God -” Tim whispered hoarsely. “You’re the one who took my wife, aren’t you? You’re the one who took Julie.”
	“That’s not your concern right now.  What you need to do is stand up very very slowly and put your hands on the back of your head.”
	Tim obeyed as Riemann stepped back to study his prey.
	“Take your underwear off,” Riemann said softly standing behind the blonde man after he’d had a good long look at the strong back and supple buttocks.  He towered almost two inches over Winnfried but the guy was in good shape and could make trouble for him.
	Tim started to turn, puzzled, taken by surprise.
	“You heard me, fuckface. Just stand there and take them off. Now.”
	Riemann felt his cock surge inside his jeans as he watched Tim bend obediently to peel the jockey shorts down his lean muscular legs.
	The killer then moved toward Julie’s husband and pushed the plastic tarp toward him.
	“Here. Open that up and stretch it out over the bed.”
	Reluctantly, and as Riemann stepped back keeping the gun on him, Tim took the plastic cover and laid it out over the bed.
	“What are you going to do?” he asked fearfully as he pulled the tarp over the sheets and pillows. It covered the whole bed and rolled down and flopped over on to the tan-colored shag carpet.
	“You’ll find out,” Riemann responded menacingly. 
	When the man had finished with the tarp Riemann reached into the pocket of his tight jeans, took the hard plastic cuff-strips and bound Tim’s wrists behind him.
	“Get on your knees.”
	Unwillingly Tim Winnfried slid down beside the plastic-covered bed.
	Riemann came around in front of him still holding the gun on the kneeling man’s head.
	Standing over Julie’s husband Larissa Wilson’s murderer unzipped his pants.
	He took his half-hard cock out and Tim turned his head away.
	Riemann pressed the silencer cylinder into the kneeling man’s skull.
	“No, no, no. Don’t you fucking look away, my man.. You’re gonna serve your Lord and Master here. Right now.”
	“You sick fuck.”
	Riemann chuckled.
	“You don’t know how true that really is...now open up and treat me right, or your head will be all over this fucking room.”
	Prison had taught Riemann to appreciate the beauty of fellatio from a submissive male and he sighed as slowly, Tim Winnfried’s lips closed unwillingly around his hard cock.
	In the shadows he could see the look of disgust on the kneeling man’s face and he smiled taking Tim’s blonde head in his free hand to drive himself deeper into the man’s mouth.
	“That’s good, Tim, real fuckin’ good. Shit - just like a goddamn woman.”
	Riemann’s hand moved down to Julie’s husband’s neck.  The man had a nice neck, strong, smooth, warm.
	“Now listen to your Lord and Master, Tim boy,” Riemann cooed squeezing the kneeling man’s throat slowly, relishing the feeling of total control.
“If you want your little boy and your little girl to live through this night you will have to please me,” he lied.
	Tim’s eyes looked up at the aggresor and Riemann saw the dismay there.
	“Oh yeah, Tim boy, make no mistake about it. I’ll kill both of them. Hm-hmm. I’ll kill them real slow. And I’ll make you watch.”
	“Ghhmm!” Tim grunted.
	“Lick my balls now,” Riemann ordered.
	A spark of fierce revolt burned in Tim Winnfried’s eyes.
	“Do it, you piece of shit,” Riemann hissed.
	Julie’s husband leaned down, his back slumping slightly as he pushed his head under Riemann’s long hard cock shaft.
	Tim’s tongue darted out as he moved his head mechanically up and down.
	“Lick me like you love me, scumbag,” Riemann whispered fiercely digging his strong fingers into Winnfried’s neck. “Don’t even think of using your teeth.”
	“Do it nice or your children die!”
	Riemann spread his legs apart and looked down at the blonde man. It felt nice to have carpeting under his shoes and not the cold stone floor of the jail cell. 
	He knew how hard it was for a male to submit to another male.
  	He knew firsthand, because he’d been there himself. 
	Riemann knew what it was to look up at someone you hated and give them pleasure.  His stepfather had shown him.  That’s why his stepfather had ended up with a knife in his throat, the knife Riemann had put there while the bastard slept.
Riemann had only been thirteen and he was shuffled quickly through a couple of years of reform school because he had no priors and because there had been ample evidence of abuse.  Unlike others saddled with his economic circumstances, and with the meager help of his alcoholic mother who turned tricks between bottles of Jack Daniels, Riemann was able to excel in high school and keep his murderous instincts hidden long enough to make first year of med school.  There he’d enjoyed himself with the female cadavers that were used for anatomy class when no one was around but eventually he’d needed the living item.  So he’d hooked up with Hutch and Parks until the killing of Larissa Wilson had put them all behind bars.
	Now Riemann was glad to on top again, in control, in the saddle.
	He knew Winnfried or his kids would not survive but for now he could use his victim’s love of his family against him as a tool for complete submission.
	No feeling on earth was better.
	“Suck,” he ordered.
	This time his victim barely hesitated and Riemann watched the handsome man’s blonde face bob back and forth on the lenghth of his aroused organ.
	“Ahhh - That’s much better.”
	After a few moments, Riemann pushed Tim’s head away and stepped back.
	“Alright, pig. Get on the fucking bed on your knees. You’ve got me hard enough now. I’m ready to fuck you up the ass.”
	“Goddamn you,” Tim snarled, wiping his hand across his mouth with disgust. “If you touch my kids I’ll come and find you and kill you you sick bastard.”
	Riemann’s fist flew up suddenly and clipped the kneeling man hard across the jaw sending him back sprawling on the floor in a heap.
	Then Riemann reared up and kicked the cuffed naked man with the toe of his new shiny shoe hard in the balls making him groan and bend into a fetal position.
	He leaned down over his crumpled prey and placed the sole of the shoe he’d just kicked him with on the back of the blonde head pushing Tim’s face into the carpet.
	“All I need from you is obedience, fuckface. Any more lip and its over for you and the little ones. Now get the fuck up on the bed.  I want your big hairy ass
up in the air and waiting for me.”
	It took him a few moments but eventually Tim Winnfried did as he was told crawling up on the edge of the plastic covered bed, awkwardly, wrists bound behind him. The tarp made a crumpling sound as he sank into it.
	Riemann put his free hand in the middle of Tim’s back as the naked man knelt on the mattress. Riemann gave him a shove.
	Tim fell forward on the bed, his face in the cold plastic.
	“Get your ass up for me,” Riemann urged. “Come on, pigfuck. Up. Up.
That’s it. Higher. Come on. Put it where I can fuck it. Spread those thighs apart.
Wider. Yeah. Yeah. That’s where you belong. Fucking blonde pussyboy.  Your asshole is mine. Live with it. I’m taking what belongs to me.”
	Slowly, dizzy with excitement, Riemann began to strip as Tim crouched on the bed before him, hands plastic-cuffed behind him, his ass up in the air. Stripes of street light came in through the thin-stripped window blinds highlighting the bound man’s hard-sculpted male body, shining on the wrinkled tarp.	
	As Riemann took off his clothes, first the blue windbreaker then the shoes and socks, then the shirt and pants, he ogled the strong deeply tanned man he had so easily overpowered.  Without the gun Tim Winnfried would probably have given Riemann a real hard time. Broad-shouldered but slender the blonde man seemed healthy and certainly capable of putting up a significant fight. Already achingly erect Riemann felt his cock pulse with the sick need of what he had planned for Julie’s luckless spouse and her equally unfortunate offspring now asleep in the bedroom down the hall.
	When Riemann finished stripping he lay his clothes and shoes on the floor near the window.  These had been provided by the warden’s people at the prison before his departure along with the weapon and his new identity: Wes Hillman, FBI. He had been given money and power to do Harper’s bidding.  And except for this little tangential excursion with the Winnfrieds Riemann intended on following Harper’s game all the way.  He knew that if he didn’t he would not survive for long.  The warden was a very influential man with a very long reach and Riemann, for the present, had no intention of stepping out of line.
	Besides what the warden didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
	Riemann went back out to the hallway to get his knapsack and as he re-entered the bedroom he drew the blinds and switched on the bedside lamps.
	He wanted privacy but also plenty of light for what he was about to do.
	First, the duct tape.
	There was no need to run the risk that Tim’s shouts would warn the children in the other room. Even if the phone lines were cut one of the little fucks could wake up and sneak outside and to a neighbor’s house. Or one of the neighbors might be up and about for some reason and hear something.
	Riemann bent down to pick up the man’s briefs from the floor beside the bed. Then he pinched Tim’s nostrils closed as he held the man’s head vised in the crook of his arm.
	“Open up, pig,” he growled.
	Tim struggled but eventually starved for breath he opened his mouth and
Riemann shoved the balled-up cotton underwear into it forcefully before wrapping a long strip of duct tape around the blonde man’s head.
	Next he looped a stretch of rope around Tim’s neck tightly, almost choking him, and he ran it down to tie and knot it around the leg of the bed securing his victim’s head against the plastic-protected mattress.
	Flushed and making grunting gasping sounds Tim was helpless to struggle against his captor as Riemann now bound rope around the kneeling man’s ankles binding the right leg to the foot of the bed and the left leg to the headboard, forcing Tim wide open, offering clear access to balls and cockmeat as well  as to his dark-skinned shithole.  
	Gun in one hand, cock in the other Riemann then stepped up behind the bent-over, tied-up, neck-bound, tape-gagged man on the tarp slick bed.
	He lifted the tip of his heavy erection, rubbed it slowly back and forth on the helpless man’s balls then raised it to Tim’s tight brown anus and began to prod into the dry aperture.
	He spoke tersely to his victim.
	“Let it in...let it fuck you...open up for it.”
	Riemann gripped Tim’s hip with his free hand going slightly up on his toes, legs apart as he began to thrust forward, determined, his mouth watering as he watched the head of his hard member disappear into the indentation of
red-brown flesh.
	Tim grunted.  His legs pulled against the restraining ropes making the mattress move, the plastic tarp crumple, and the foot- and head-boards creak slightly.  He tried to relax his anal muscle, yielding to the assrape as much as he could.
	“Good,” Riemann grunted. “Ahh - real good, fuckface. Its so much better when you cooperate - so much better for both of us - mmmm -”
	Riemann smiled as he saw the blonde man’s hands ball up into fists, a patina of sweat beading up all over him, Riemann’s cock harder, bigger, as it began
to push and slide painfully inward.
	Tim’s attempts to accept the invading penetration were fruitless.  	Riemann’s prick was way bigger than anything Winnfried’s virgin hole could possibly cope with.
	“Uuggggg!” Tim groaned.
	“Keep the noise-level down, fuckface,” Riemann warned, continuing to push slowly forward, going up higher on his toes, his strong legs tense, his
balls hanging heavily.
	For Tim the penetration was a horrible act of invasion, pain and humiliation.  Nothing like this had ever happened to him. Ever.  He didn’t exactly hate gay men but he was disdainful of them.  Like other straight guys he’d ridiculed effeminate mannerisms or laughed when others did so and like other guys he’d enjoyed the derision of homosexual sex.  Now there was nothing funny about it at all.  This was no joke. He was being crudely raped.  The outrage of the act made him understand what women feared about the masculine animal. And this understanding was being rammed slowly up his super-tight shithole by a savage who would not hesitate for a minute to end Tim’s life, and worse, his children’s lives, without the slightest qualm.
	Eventually, after almost three interminable painful minutes of struggle, the full lenghth of Riemann’s stiff meat was lodged in his victim’s asshole. 
	What was that famous saying? Possesion is ninety percent of the law? By that dictum Riemann now owned Tim Winnfried, owned him intimately and completely.
	Gradually, Riemann began to slide back, almost all the way out, then in. Out slowly, very slowly, then in again, hard.  Back and forth.  Going in to the hilt, feeling the blonde man’s balls right up against his, and backing out, the 
ridge of his cock-crown sliding past the ring of anal muscle, punishing it on the 
way out and again on the way back in, faster and faster, until the involuntary
lubrication reduced the friction, until it was a slow brutal fuck that could be
leisurely enjoyed, until Tim’s sweat rolled down his legs and made his knees slip and slide on the plastic tarp.
	Riemann slowly pulled his cock out of Tim’s asshole and pressed the swollen crown of his organ against the kneeling man’s genitals. That flesh was soft and moist and warm and it made Riemann smile with pleasure before he put his prick back to Tim’s anus and slid inward again. He smelled the shit-sweat odor of raped assmeat.
	“Fuckin’ faggot,” Riemann snarled. “I bet you’re loving every minute of it aren’t you? Uuhhhnnhh! Motherfucker...take what your Lord and Master
gives you.”
	Tim Winnfried’s eyes teared up from pain and frustration.  With each thrust Riemann was breaking him down further, reducing him, conquering him.
Tim began to sob brokenly into the muffling cotton briefs jammed in his mouth.
	“Are you crying, queerboy? Huh? Are you crying for me? That’s nice.
That’s real nice, fuckface.  Uhh! Yeahh! Fuck me! Fuck me! Push back against me - give me a ride - yeah - give me a pony ride - yeah - yeah - you piece of shit bastard - I’m gonna give you something to cry about now, you fuck.”
	Riemann pushed the barrel of the gun into the crease of Tim’s right
kneehollow, at the bend of the sweaty leg.  Sliding into Tim’s asshole all the way to the hilt he reached the maximum point of penetration and at that moment he squeezed the trigger.
	The silenced gun coughed and jumped in his hand pumping a round right through Tim Winnfried’s kneecap, shattering it, tearing through the tarp and the mattress and lodging in the carpeted floor under the bed.  Deliciously, as Tim gave out a choked off cry, his asshole clenched mightily around Riemann’s shaft.
	“Ahhhh!” Riemann moaned in pleasure. “Good squeeze, fuckface - soo good - just like a goddamn pussy...Here’s another one for you.”
	The killer pulled his cock almost all of the way out and then put the tip of the gun on Tim’s left kneehollow, bending slightly to accomplish a similar angle of entry.  
	“N-ng! Ngg! Ngghh!”, Tim grunted already anticipating the horrible pain that was coming, his body quivering tensely.
	Riemann smiled, slammed deep into his victim’s shit-chute and again
pulled on the trigger as his balls butted the other man’s.
	Again, the gun burped out a round smacking through flesh and bone
through the creaking bed and into the floor.
	Tim leaped responsively, his body angled in the direction of the new bullet wound, his head coming up off the plastic-covered matress, neck rope choking him and yanking him back down, his asshole clutching the rapist’s organ once more, blood blossoming on the tarp, seeping into the sheets and mattress, below his shattered knees.  Tim’s hairy legs and feet kicked spastically on either side of Riemann who held his position cruelly, unyieldingly, his cock fully engorged inside his captive.
	For a few moments Riemann continued to fuck the wounded, gasping
man, reaching down with his free hand to grip Tim’s strong shoulder as he jacked in and out of his whining victim. Then he pulled out and he wiped his shit smeared cock off on Tim’s sweaty asscheeks.
	Blood puddled under the wounded man on the plastic tarp.
	The killer put his gun down on the chair on top of his folded clothes and came around the bed to look down into Tim’s flushed face, moving in close to wipe the brown streaks still left on his member off on the man’s blonde head, on his teary, sweaty face, talking to him softly as he did so.
	“Its playtime now, Timmy boy.  Serious playtime. I’m bringing the kiddies into it.”
	Riemann stroked his cock against the man’s soft earlobe, against his forehead.
	Tim grunted helplessly looking up at his tormentor shaking his head pleadingly. Riemann’s cock was leaving smudged streaks of shit all over Tim’s face.
	“Its time for the children to join our little party and share in the fun...Oh, and by the way - I’m not the one who took Julie.  Friend of mine took care of that.”
	The killer smiled cruelly.
	“But your sweet-ass wife and I will definitely be seeing each other very soon. In a few hours, actually. Soon as I’m done here.”
	Winnfried stared up at his tall attacker, dazed, unable to understand or make sense of what was happening. Now in the light he could see more of the agressor, the invader that had captured, humiliated and tortured him. He knew nothing of Julie’s sordid escapade with Larissa years earlier and her brush with rape and death so all he could do was speculate. Was it possible Julie could have had some kind of relationship with someone like this, he thought. Or was this man some lunatic she’d had a dispute with in a store, in a parking lot or out on the street, maybe in traffic.  He could see there would be no mercy, no forgiveness if the man had thought himself wronged or disrespected.  The buzz-cut, almost shaved head  and the pumped up muscles made Riemann a formidable presence of evil, someone who would not be crossed, and at that moment, through his haze of pain Winnfried knew without the shadow of a doubt that he, Julie and their children were all doomed.
	“You may not know this but Julie and I are old friends...back before your time, asshole,” Riemann said in response to Tim’s puzzled anguished look. “I’m just settling an old score.”
	Riemann turned then and Tim saw the red and green dragon on the killer’s wide muscular back.
	Riemann could hear Winnfried grunting and twisting on the bed behind him as he left the main bedroom, got his knife from the knapsack, and moved down the hall past the Little Mermaid nite-light.
	The sounds coming from the desperate wounded man he’d just raped and shot made him smile.

14. Kirkwood’s Moment
(Sunday 2 AM)

	By the time Bill Kirkwood got his hands on little Ann Rowen, untying the ropes that held her suspended against the wall of the refrigerated chamber, letting her cold body sag down weakly then slump to the floor, dragging her out by one leg to the killing room, her little blonde head trailing behind his bare feet on the dirty concrete,  the child had nearly lost her mind.  
	And that was just fine with him.
	After the savage spear-kill of Mara Lane, Kirkwood was in an extremely violent mood and he needed to unleash the fury that beat inside him like a dark captive bird. The mental state of his victim concerned him not in the least; in fact, it actually served to fuel his slaughter-lust.
	As he dragged the semi-conscious child along the floor he could hear her babbling incomprehensibly, eyes half-closed, calling out to her dead sister, sobbing for her momma.
	Her trembling voice stoked the flames of his deep sadistic fury.
	The little blonde bitch reminded him of his daughter Leanne.  She was slender, lanky legged, and very nicely shaped, with the cutest tiny breast-buds.
	He knew Kessler had put Ann and her sister through hell but unlike Jessie, who hung beautifully butchered in the refrigerated chamber, the sadist had not yet got around to doing much physically with Ann. The child had been subjected only to psychological torture and rape.  Kessler had told him that the little bitch had been hanging in the meat locker for more than ten hours and that if Kirkwood wanted to enjoy her he should get to it before she fucking froze to death.
	In fact she was intensely cold to the touch, cool sweet angel meat that Kirkwood was eager to heat up with hard merciless pain.
	The killing room where Kirkwood took his child victim was just past the entrance to the holding cells, and though it took him less than a minute to drag her there when he yanked her inside and closed the heavy metal door the little bitch was already getting some color back in her cheeks.
	Kirkwood appreciated that. A healthy responsive torture-victim was preferable to a silent and catatonic one.
	This killing room was special.  It was used by the men for private one-on- ones or for experimental tortures that could be investigated before being used in the snuff videos.  And indeed Kirkwood was feeling very experimental, very extreme.  He was glad he had a little girl bitch to take out all his fury on. He was more than eager for the kind of sick savagery only a child could bring out in him.  And he was glad Kessler had let him have this sweet blonde angel because for the next three hours he was going to use her for all she could give.
	Before taking the little girl off the meat-locker wall Kirkwood had worked himself up with three of the dead females that hung there, sliding his cock up deep into their cold cunt-slits and assholes.  He too shared Kessler’s and Robeson’s enthusiasm for the grisly necrophilic act of plundering cold lifeless female corpses. 
	Physically it was an awesome sensation to fuck deat bitch-meat; psychologically,  remembering and re-experiencing the pleasure of each kill was a powerful turn-on for the sadistic killers.  It was not uncommon for all three men to visit the refrigerated chamber together or individually before a snuff session.
	Kirkwood concentrated especially on one girl, one he had come back to several times in the last visits to the warehouse, a young mulatto teen bitch. He himself had shot her to death with a high-powered telescoped hunting rifle.  
	She had been taken outside on a warm late spring morning behind the warehouse and told to run into the forest.
	 For most of the night before all three men had raped and beaten her with whips and her cinnamon-hued skin was marked with red and blue streaks and dark purple bruises. While she stood shivering, naked, crying softly, Kessler lied to her in a cold and indifferent voice telling her that if she was able to get as far as the tree line she would be allowed to live.  Kessler and Robeson, who had been holding her by her arms on either side while Kirkwood gently probed her shaved little slit with the tip of the rifle had then released her with an encouraging push and as she’d sprinted for the woods Kirkwood had raised up the German weapon, still moist with her pussy slime, and taken aim.
	Before he had a chance to fire she’d stumbled once and fallen to the ground with a high-pitched squeal of terror.
	Calmly keeping her in his sights, Kirkwood let her get back up on her feet, in fact, he’d let her get almost to the edge of the woods, giving her a false sense of hope, she furtively looking back at the killers over her shoulder, before he squeezed the trigger.  By then the crosshairs of the telescope on the rifle were accurately centered on the back of her pretty short-haired head. Kirkwood squeezed off a round and the bullet exploded through the slim stalk of her neck in a red burst. She fell like a downed gazelle to the grass, clutching at her throat, spinning and writhing for almost a full minute, gurgling, choking to death in her own blood, the top of her spine shattered.
	All three killers had stood over her and watched her die at their feet, jerking off as the victim took her last wide-eyed, wide-mouthed breaths. Then, they’d fucked the dead girl on the blood soaked grass taking turns, enjoying the warmth of an early May breeze on their naked bodies, pounding the still warm carcass of the luckless young female against the ground.  
	Afterwards, they’d carried her downstairs and into the refrigerated chamber, to hang her by her gouged neck on a hook with other similar victims, sweet murdered females that would continue to serve their killer masters long after their unjust and undeserved end, preserved at nearly freezing temperatures in order to endlessly delay the decompostion of their flesh. 
	Kirkwood lifted Ann Rowen up off the floor and laid the shivering, half-conscious child on a wooden table in the center of the room, her slender legs dangling off the edge, under the harsh glow of an overhead reflector.  From a drawer cabinet beside the table he took a small vial of ammonia which he popped open and pushed under her nose until she began to come around.
	He smiled down on the hapless child as she opened her bright blue eyes.
	“You pretty little pig-slut,” he growled menacingly. “I’m gonna warm you up good... I’m gonn make you hurt.”
	Her pretty features squinched up and she began to cry, her lovely eyes filling and brimming over with hot tears that ran down her face and on to the
table top, her little hands cupping her pudgy face, fingers curled gingerly.
	“Momma...”she cried. “Mommaaaaaaa!”
	Viciously Kirkwood pulled her hands down and slapped her hard across her face.
	The blow quieted her instantly.
	He yanked her up into a sitting position by her wrists. He stood in front of her, she sitting on the edge of the table, her little feet dangling by his knees and he leaned down to bite her shoulders and upper arms making her screech and
sob, digging his teeth into the tender trembling girlmeat, drooling on her, growling, clamping down. Her flesh was still cold from the refrigerated chamber as he bit her neck and cheeks holding her still as she tried weakly to squirm out of his grip, her cool legs kicking against his hot thighs.  He raised each of her little forearms and sank his teeth hard into the icy pale flesh grimacing like a demon, his cock pulsing with heat and swelling powerfully.
	“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he whispered meanly chomping down near her elbows, under the arms and moving up to the shoulder again, leaving bright red crescents on the child’s pale skin, biting harder until he tasted her warm blood. 
	“Ahh yeahhgghh - so sweet - you little fuck - mmmm -” 
	He pulled her little hands up to his mouth and sank his teeth into her frosty fingers, into the tiny palms, into her thumbs, rabidly his eyes searching her little pouting, slap-reddened face, enjoying the terror and the pain he was putting there.
	Kirkwood was a forty seven year old man with dark brown hair that had just recently started to receed from his wide forehead, pulling back from his thick dark eyebrows.  He was lean and tall and showed little signs of aging.
	To Ann Rowen he was a monster.  Just like the other one. The one that had taken Jessie.
	His bloodshot eyes were mean and scowling and his thirst for her pain was openly evident and extremely terrifying.  She tried to pull her hands and arms away from his sharp hungry teeth but she was too weak and helpless to stop his bestial attack.  Her mind, already delusional and incoherent, could not grasp what was happening. Bits and pieces of her sister’s slaughter came and went, twisted memories of the other man that had kidnapped them from the park and stabbed the big serrated hunting knife into Jessie’s naked body.
	Kirkwood took both of Ann’s wrists in one hand and leaned down to grab her left ankle and bring her leg up to sink his teeth into her shin and knee and thigh.
	The skin of her leg tasted different.  He felt the leg muscles tense under her young cool flesh as he sunk his sharp incisors to the hilt in her.
	The child’s mind spun backward.  She could hear the thump of the killer Kessler’s knife - thump - thump - thump - as it slammed into poor Jessie’s belly and ribs and Jessie was looking right into her eyes while the man killed her, mournful green eyes, blood spilling from her lips.
	“No! No!” little Ann Rowen shrieked as Kirkwood bit her legs and belly.
	He was eager for the little girl’s destruction, for her flesh, for her pain, for her suffering.
	He lifted her cold little foot to his mouth and clamped down on it hard enough to break her small toe between his molars.  She screeched loudly and he
continued grind his teeth into her foot until blood dripped down his chin.
	Then he moved to her other leg placing several deep bites in her calve and ankle, snapping the big toe of that foot as he growled savagely almost tearing
it from her limb.
	Taking both of her ankles he drew her toward him pulling her off the table so that she hung upside down, her shoulders against his shins, her hair tangled
in his feet and he raised her up, her pussy to his face, her legs spread, her thighs
framing his face as he sank his teeth into her tiny hairless sex-bud biting down with a growl. As he thrust his long tongue into her he was thrilled to finally find warmth and the taste of the little girl’s insides nearly propelled him to orgasm. 
	Momentary visions of the darkened meat-locker flashed through Ann’s mind provoked by the invasion of Kirkwood’s prodding tongue...the woman Jessie’s killer called Julie licking her down there, kneeling on the floor...Jessie’s killer pushing his big peepee up into Ann, breaking her...But then the terrible pain Kirkwood was inflicting on her little lovehole as the man’s teeth suddenly bore down blew away all other images and she screamed as the monster gouged into her.
	Her shriek energized Kirkwood.
	Making guttural sounds in his throat he raised the inverted child’s ankles still higher to brown leather cuffs that dangled on chains from the ceiling and buckled the cuffs tight.
	He needed to beat her with his bare hands.  He needed to hit and hit hard.
	Dangling upside down, little Ann Rowen could see Kirkwood’s bare feet as he circled around her in a boxing stance beginning to jab at her with his
hard-knuckled fists.  Blood dribbled from her bitten pussy.
	“Uhh -” he grunted each time he struck. “Uhh - Uhh -”
	He slammed into the child’s middle, into her belly, punching hard, grunting like a prizefighter in the ring, knocking the wind out of her.  He punched her little titties, her thighs.
	She gasped for air, the impact of his blows making her swing back and forth.
	He could see in the bright illumination from the overhead lights the half-moon wounds his bites had left all over her.  Here and there, especially in her feet the wounds had turned dark blue and purple.  Some of them bled.  And now, bruising from the punches was beginning to show up on her too.
	“Bitch!” he snarled as he struck.
	“- little whore!”
	“Cunt!”
	Years before, Kirkwood had been on the boxing team in the Army. He knew how to hit and hit hard. Especially when the target did not fight back. And he loved punching girlmeat.
	“Uhh - Uhh! - little piece of SHIT!”
	Ann Rowen swung to Kirkwood’s pumping fists and horrible words like a stuffed toy, gagging sobs coming from her, drooling, coughing, her blonde head tossing from side to side, her eyes shut tight.  She swung away and swung back, swung side to side helplessly, a perfect human punching bag.
	Then his snarling head swooped in again and his teeth sank into her soft thigh-meat, into the sides of her legs, his big hard prick pushing against her chest, his balls on her face.
	Stepping back he punched her a few more times choking off her wild
cries of pain with his fists.  He slapped her little face viciously back and forth and then he reached down and grabbed her hair up in a clump to pull her face to his
crotch.
	“Take me in your fucking mouth!” he growled.
	Positioned as she was, little Ann Rowen didn’t have far to go to obey him.
	Her arms hung down inertly, fingers barely touching the floor as she opened her small pink mouth as wide as she could and he lifted his throbbing cock up into it and thrust his hips forward.
	He let her choke and sputter on his organ for a few pleasurable moments then he drew back and began punching her again and slapping her. She raised her arms and hands to avert his blows and he pushed them out of the way.
	“Put your hands down!” he shouted at her. “Down, you little bitch...down! And keep ‘em there!”
	Viciously he cunt-punched the little girl as hard as he could smashing his fists full-strength into the soft triangle of her bleeding crotch.
	And again he grabbed her head in one hand and his cock in the other to feed her manmeat as she choked and sobbed and pleaded and babbled incoherently.
	Now worked up to a frenzy Kirkwood was ready to take little Ann Rowen further.
	He needed to see her in deep pain.
	He released her from the ankle cuffs and lowered her to the floor.  Then, turning a crank lever on the wall he dropped the cuffs to place them on her wrists.  Quickly, without giving her time to even catch her breath, he cranked her back up by her arms, up, way up off the floor, off her feet.
	The child hung there sobbing softly, covered with dark bruises and bite marks some of which were blood-streaked.  She looked down into the killer’s eyes pleadingly, an endearing wingless angel, raised up so that her head was almost two feet above his. 	
	She watched him go to the corner of the room and bring the pine log toward her.  It was mounted on a metal tripod, like the ones she’d seen on Christmas tree trunks to hold them up, and it was whittled to a sharp point.  It rose nearly five feet from the floor and sharp one-inch metal spikes protruded from it at regular intervals.
	She watched him place it directly under her then she saw him go back to the crank that controlled the suspension chains.
	As he lowered her  she felt her little bruised, bite-scarred muff come in  contact with the rough hard point of the log.  She tried to move away but she was too weak and the weight of her body was already helping the impalement.
	Slowly jerking off Kirkwood lowered the sobbing child on to the sharpened log until the wooden tip just barely entered her tiny bleeding pussyhole.  He knew it wouldn’t go much further than that unless he helped it.
	And that was just what he intended to do.
	Locking the crank lever in position he returned to the corner of the room.  
	The heavy hundred pound barbells were stacked on top of each other.  He and Kessler had welded leather buckle-cuffs to the barbells so that they were attachable to a victim’s wrists or ankles.
	Kirkwood took the heavy steel disks and placed them out on the floor beside the suspended child. Then, going down on one knee he raised each of the heavy barbells to Ann Rowen’s frail girlie ankles, one on each leg.
	The child gave out  frantic cries when he buckled the weights on her as she felt herself being weighed down on to the sharpened log, held up now only by her cuffed wrists.	
	Kirkwood returned to the crank lever.
	Watching closely, smiling, he began again to lower the weighed-down child victim on to the impaling log.  
	She slid down onto the gruesome penetration, her wrists strangled above her head, little hands turning white, her head tossed back as she wailed and sobbed with cacophanous zeal.  The sharpened wood spear pried into her immature vagina which was blood moistened from Kessler’s rape in the refrigerated chamber and from Kirkwood’s savage bites.  She could feel the log filling her completely, stuffing her, splitting her open as the weight of the barbells carried her ever downward.
	“Oooaaoowww!” she screeched. “Pleeeease - nnoooo!” she wailed looking for Kirkwood’s pity, her anguished-slitted eyes searching his gloating face
for mercy. “It hurts! A-aooowww! Pleeeeease!”
	“I know it hurts...you little bitch...mmm...I know  it...”
	Kirkwood grinned malevolently and continued to turn the crank lever lowering his unfortunate child victim on to the impaling wood.  He salivated as he saw the first trickles of blood roll down the rough bark of the pine log and stroked himself in time with her mournful cries.  Taking in her spasmic reactions to the terrible penetration, her shapely legs yanked toward the floor, weighed-down feet wriggling, his lust climbed gradually toward the boiling point.  He hoped the little bitch could live through all the shit he wanted to put her through and as he watched her suffering he fantasized that it was Leanne on the impaling log, his own daughter, dying for his sadistic pleasure.
	When the log spear was fully lodged in Ann Rowen’s gouged pussy and the weight of the barbells would impale her no further Kirkwood strode across the room and took the coiled leather bullwhip from the hook on the wall. 
	He let the lash unfurl then he came slowly back to the suspended child, long braided lash trailing behind him noisily on the stone floor.
	Standing in front of her he raised her sagging head by her chin in his free hand and leaned down to kiss her small rosy lips. The taste of her parted mouth and her sweet breath and her salty tears made him dizzy, made his cock and his balls swell.  He pushed his tongue into her mouth as she moaned weakly, her innocent questioning blue eyes staring into his, expressing all the violated and confused agony of her terrible suffering.  His hand moved and groped its way down his virgin captive’s sweaty flank and rib-cage, to her hip and then down to her tender thigh.  Already she was hot from his blows and bites and he could feel the small bumps where his teeth had bruised and torn her skin.  He had indeed warmed her up with pain as he’d promised himself and he licked her cheeks as his hand traced the widened gash of child-cunt stretched around the wooden log, her blood on his fingers.  Moving over her taut belly his hand slithered around behind her to cup her small round buttcheeks one at a time as he kissed her mouth again and drooled on her and gripped her butter-smooth skin with his hard fingers.  Gradually he moved his long middle digit up between her buttocks and up into the pliable rectal opening just behind the rough bark of the penetrating log.  She moaned into his kissing mouth as he pushed his finger up into her tight little asshole.
	“I’m going to fuck you there,” he whispered softly into her cute little ear that was pressed against the side of her upraised arm as she wriggled against him her little feet hobbled by the heavy metal weights cuffed around the ankles, her bruised toes searching for purchase on the scaly, spiked wood of the log. He rubbed his finger around inside her little anus.
	“Right inside there - mmm - right inside there - Understand?”
	She nodded slowly, her pretty little eyes narrowing, brows arching, a soft whining beginning in her throat.
	“I’m going to fuck you there hard, while you die.”
	“Noooooo!” she moaned, tears flowing down her cheeks and he kissed her again softly as she sobbed, her feet slipping on the penetrating log, she sliding 
down, the sharp tip piercing into her cervix.
	He withdrew his finger slowly trailing it up the crack of her trembling ass to the base of her spine.
	“Ohh yess,” he hissed his hand moving up her curving back slowly to her upstretched arm, gripping her shoulder to force her down on to the log, his eyes staring right into hers as the tip of the wooden spear pushed up slightly further into her virgin womb making her give out a sharp high-pitched puppy-yelp.
	His overwhelming instinct then was to grab on to her with both hands and ram her down onto the spiked wood.
	He knew that would kill the child quickly and he resisted the temptation.
	He needed more from her. Much more.
	He needed it to be slow.
	He needed to take her apart bit by small bit.
	“But right now,” he said releasing her, still looking into her pleading eyes.
“...right now I’m going to whip you...”
	“Pleeeeeease....” she whined.
	Her small high-pitched wail almost made him cum.
	Taking a deep breath he forced himself to focus.
	“I’m going to whip you until you bleed,” he said bluntly and she began
to cry loudly, her body racked with sobs as he circled around and stepped away from her impaled body.
	“Don’t hurt me a-any m-more - pleeeease - pleease -”
	She would writhe and sob for a few moments then suddenly go silent, limp, her blown out mind unable to hang on to the terrible reality she was being forced to accept, then she would start again.
	Kirkwood felt a deep sense of sadistic power which radiated like a hot surge from deep in his balls and up into his belly. He felt almost feverish, thirsty, his skin prickly and sensitive.  His naked body was like an engine switched
on and revved to high gear. Every movement he made seemed almost panther-like, super-charged with meaning and deliberate.
	He took in the impaled girl-child, her weighed-down feet scrabbling for a hold on the bark of the spear log to keep from impaling herself further as she beseeched his mercy, she trying to look back at him over her upstretched arm, both her tiny cuffed hands clasping at the air above her head.
	What he was about to do was unspeakably brutal. He was going to use a one-inch thick braided leather bullwhip on the defenseless suspended body of
an already severely tortured twelve year old girl.  Just the thought of it made his mouth water.  He was going to punish an innocent and punish her terribly, well beyond her capacity, well beyond all civilized limits.
	Taking a deep breath he stepped back another couple of feet.
	He needed room to swing the long heavy lash.
	Then he drew the whip up and behind him, raised it off the floor
	 and swung full force.
	It hissed throught the air like hot steam from an escape valve.

15. Riemann’s Games
Sunday (3 AM)
	
	Tim Winnfried made wild snarling noises, gagged on his underwear and fought the ropes that held him against the tarp-covered bed.  His broken shattered legs continued to bleed and the plastic sheet gleamed with his blood.  He felt weak and dizzy and could barely keep his head up off the tarp before the strangling rope forced him to desist. Still, every instinct in him told him to fight against the cruel bondage. His wrists were bleeding from scraping against the hard plastic cuffs that held his hands behind him at the small of his back.
	His daughter, Sandra, gagged with duct tape, hung upside down by her roped ankles on the bedroom door, her arms dangling down to the tan carpet, her wrists wrapped in the same gray tape, a tiny cut and a line of dry blood on her little bare sex-mound.  Her face was flushed red, tears streaming from her half-shut eyes, and Tim didn’t know if she would die just from hanging there. The blood on her pubis made him wonder if Riemann had already raped her.  At first, when the killer had strung her up, knotting the opposite end of the rope which he’d wrapped tight around her ankles to the doorknob on the opposite side of the door, she had kicked and struggled, thumping against the white paneled wood, whining and making muffled screeching noises, her eyes terror-wide as she’d swiveled all around. Then she’d just hung there limply, looking at her dad on the bed, short brown hair hanging in limp tendrils.
	Tim knew he was a sorry demoralizing sight in the eyes of his children, naked, gagged, rope-bound on his broken knees, smudged streaks of shit on his face. He also knew he was losing blood at a very rapid rate. The bullets that had torn through his legs had probably severed the main arteries.
	He could not help his daughter. 
	Nor could he help Billy, his twelve year old son, who the killer now slowly raped right in front of him. 
	Riemann had tied the boy’s wrists to his ankles forcing him to kneel on the carpet in a fetal crouch, duct-taped face pressed to the floor.
	“Watch me, Tim,” Riemann called out softly.
	“mmmm - just watch what I do to your little boy.”
	Riemann had stood over Billy, crouched over him, fat long cock in his hand.
	“Yeahh,” Riemann told him, smiling, stroking his rampant erection. “You know what it feels like, fuckface....now your little boy is gonna feel it too.”
	“Nhh!NGGHH!” Tim whinnied shaking his duct-taped head.
	Still smiling, eyes slitted, the tattooed killer dipped down slightly and placed his ten inch meat to the gagged young boy’s asshole.
	Gently, Riemann stroked Billy’s soft scrotum and ran his fingers down the limp shaft of the boy’s penis.
	“Mmmm -” he moaned licking his lips. “He’s nice and warm, fuckface...Just like his dad...chip off the old block...”
	“Ready, Billy-boy? Here I come!”
	Billy made desperate gagging noises, his body stiff and tense as
Riemann pushed in slowly, the killer’s bare feet spreading apart on the carpet as he crouched lower to sink cock into helpless boy-ass.
	As Riemann penetrated the child, holding him by one hip, Billy began to sob and screech and twist his head from side to side, his legs and arms
struggling against the tight ropes, unable to move.  And in response to her brother’s pain Sandra kicked against the door, grunting, and Tim huffed
and tried to move his broken shot-out legs, pain shooting up his thighs and back. Billy’s father had experienced for himself Riemann’s massive invading appendage and as much as it had hurt he could only imagine that what it was doing to his son’s tiny anal aperture was at least ten times worse.
	Riemann looked down on the postrate boy before him taking him by both hips now, crouching still lower to continue the painful sodomy.
	Billy was a beautiful blonde boy, the kind of boy other boys would have called momma’s boy or teacher’s pet, a sweet fuckable little bunny who, though he was already in the first stages of puberty, was still some years away from exhibiting full masculine characteristics. And yet he had the most beautiful cock and balls, perfectly developed and quite handsomely endowed.
	In the children’s bedroom, at knifepoint, after waking both of them and forcing them to strip, Riemann had made brown-haired Sandy Winnfried suck her brother’s fat little prick in her mouth and stroke his balls in her small hands.  Both children were crying as he stood over the bed watching, the long silvery serrated hunting blade in his hand.  He could hear their father grunting wildly in the bedroom down the hall.  Riemann knew the dread Tim would be feeling for his children not knowing what the killer was doing to them and only hearing their whimpers and their soulful sobs.
	Outside the window of the bedroom crickets had chirped and the shrubs in the back yard seemed frozen black silouhettes.
	Both children had looked up at him as fear-blown as rabbitts caught unawares by a stalking wolf as he’d stood over them in the shadows. They’d never seen a naked man in their lives and certainly not one with a buzz-cut sporting a ten-inch erection. Since he faced them they were unable to see the raging red-green scaled dragon on his back, otherwise their panic would have been overwhelming. Riemann was nearly six foot five, a giant towering over them, his clean shaven face dark and menacing in the half light, the long knife in his hand unlike any weapon they’d ever seen before.
	He’d woken little Sandra first peeling the daisy-patterned quilt from her and hauling her off her bed by her ankle to drop her on the blue carpet.  The thump had woken the boy and Riemann had yanked Billy down off his bed too; then he’d told both of them to take their pajamas off. They’d hesitated for a second until he showed them the knife and told them he would cut them to shreds if they did not do as he said.  They could hear their father in the other room and by the sounds he was making they knew that somehow the invader had rendered him helpless.  
	Riemann could see the terrible realization in their eyes, the knowledge that they were alone and defenseless before him. Sniffling, brown-eyed Sandra began to unbutton off her Winnie the Pooh flannel shirt. Quietly and reluctantly the boy followed suit pulling his own plain t-shirt over his head and hooking his thumbs in his briefs to pull them down his slender hair-less legs to his feet. Before Sandra could strip down her pink panties Riemann went down on one knee and yanked her to him by her wrist. 	
	She struggled weakly. The boy started to move toward Riemann.
	“Get on the bed, boy!” the killer snarled.
	“Now! On your back. Or I’ll cut your fuckin’ sister’s heart out.”
	Unwillingly, Billy did as the stranger told him to do, his tear-filled eyes
peering at the man who held his sister, fear and loathing choking him.
	Riemann smiled. He could see the hatred in little Billy’s stare and it amused him as he turned his attention to Sandra. She was lovely, innocent, wide-eyed, and not in the least gawky or disproportionate, like most children her age. He noticed that her little fingers and toes were painted dark red.  Little slut.  It wouldn’t have been long before the boys in school would have taken notice.  Not long at all - if Riemann had not come along. Now the little whore would not be going back to school at all. She was done with school forever. 
	He brought the blade of the knife up under the hem of her panties on the right side.
	She whimpered and put her hands over her cute elfin face.
	“Keep your hands at your sides, girl,” he growled.  He enjoyed the view of her comely features and didn’t want her hiding them from him, didn’t want her escaping his voracious eyes.
	As her hands moved back down and she looked up frowning, teary, at her agressor Riemann tugged at her pink panties with the sharp blade slicing
through the soft cotton fabric in one quick sweep.
	The garment fluttered to the child’s feet.
	Still gripping the nude girl firmly by her wrist Riemann brought the tip of the knife to her bare hairless pussy mound.  He pressed the blade gently into
Sandra’s crotch.
	“Feel that?” he asked staring at her.
	“Mm-hmm,” she replied innocently nodding her head, shivering slightly at the sensation of the cold metal, obediently keeping her hands at her sides as the killer had instructed, little painted fingers pressed against smooth olive-toned skin.
	“Do you want it to cut you?”
	“Uh-Uh!” she answered quickly, shaking her pretty dark-haired head.
	“Well, I will cut you if you don’t do as I say, understand?”
	“Yes, sir,” she nodded.
	“Ok. You see your big brother over there on the bed?”
	“Mm-hmm.”
	“I want you to go over there and take his pee-pee in your mouth.”
	“No!”
	She tried to pull out of his grasp but Riemann held her easily and
with a rapid motion he sliced the knife tip across the top of her chubby mons.
	“Owwww!” she wailed bending slightly but held up straight in Riemann’s firm grip.
	A thin line of girlblood crept down from the cut and down into her baby-slit.
	“Do as he says, Sandy!” Billy cried from the bed.
	“You hear your brother?” Riemann growled at his teary eyed victim.
“Obey me or I’ll cut you again.”
	The killer waited a moment, his cock throbbing with sadistic excitement.
	A small pearly blood-drop moved down Sandy’s thigh.
	“Go over there and take his pee-pee in your mouth - now.”
	“O-o.k....” she whimpered.
	Riemann had been hoping she would disobey him again so he could use his knife on her and he was only slightly disappointed when she didn’t.  Still, he knew there would be plenty of time for what he wanted and needed - later.
	He let her go and watched as she walked to the bed and climbed on to the mattress between Billy’s feet.
	“Spread your legs, boy,” Riemann whispered. “Open up for your sister.”
	So he’d stood over them and watched the forced incestuous union, knife in one hand, cock in the other, slow-stroking.  He was going to kill both children eventually but that didn’t mean he couldn’t fully enjoy them first. 
	He’d instructed Sandra at each moment.
	“Open your mouth wider - good - slide up and down - up and down on it - like a llolipop - suck it and lick it - just like candy, girl.  Mmm - that’s real
nice.”
	He’d watched as Billy had turned his face to the wall when his little
cock started to respond.
	“ - stroke his balls, baby - that’s right - with your fingers - that’s real good Sandy - you’re a good girl - such a good girl.”
	Billy’s penis was now filling her little mouth as she looked up at Riemann obviously surprised.
	“Yes. That’s right. It gets big doesn’t it? Your mouth makes it that way -
Doesn’t it, Billy? Huh? Isn’t your little sister a good cocksucker? Yes. Yes she is... Don’t stop, Sandy.  Up and down. Up and down. That’s real good. Tease his balls with your fingertips. Mmmm - that’s nice, Sandy...Push your finger into his little asshole. Don’t look at me like that. Just do it. Do it or I’ll cut both your throats open right now. Little bitch. That’s it. Mmmm - see how that hard that makes him? You’re a real slut - hm-hmmm - making your brother hard like that.”
	He let them continue for a while watching them, his cock hard and pulsing as he worked himself up and then he said:
	“Alright - you can stop now. We’re going to go see daddy.”
	When Sandra slid off the bed and the boy started to sit up, his little cock still beautifully erect Riemann could see Billy’s face was flushed with shame, the redness of his cheeks visible even in the dim light of the bedroom.
	“Looks to me like you and your sister might have played this little game before,” Riemann told him.
	“No,” the boy said firmly looking up at him.
	The boy’s eyes were just like Julie’s.  Even after sixteen years Riemann remembered clearly.
	“Don’t eyeball me, boy,” Riemann snarled.
	Billy hung his head.
	“Yeah. I think you liked it, even if you never did do it before.”
	Riemann had then walked both of them down the hallway toward the main bedroom.
	The killer had enjoyed the surprise in the children’s faces when they saw their father bound on his broken bleeding knees on the bloody plastic-tarped bed, mouth gagged, he staring up at them.
	For a sickly twisted pervert like Riemann the horror of all the participants was deeply rewarding, foreplay for what would follow.
	It didn’t take him long to bind them with the duct tape, to hang little Sandra on the bedroom door by her ankles and to put little Billy down on the floor
ankles to wrists, ready for Riemann’s raping cruelty.
	And soon the party was in full swing, Riemann’s big hard prick buried in little Billy’s asshole, Sandra upside down kicking and thumping on the door, Tim Winnfried protesting the sick destruction of his family grunting and bouncing against the unyielding ropes on the bed.
	Riemann fucked the boy hard, ramming in and out of his super-tight anus, making him wail.  He was deep in his element now, in the heat and heart of evil, possesed, as when he and the other two men had killed those women so many years earlier.
	There had been four murders but the police had only found about Larissa Wilson, the last one, the one that had ended up tied to the fence, a metal pipe sticking out of her cunt.  
	The others had been neatly disposed of and neither Hutch nor Parks had ever confessed.  But there had been no time to clean up the Wilson kill and that fucking farmer Weston had found her.  And then that bitch Julie had talked.
	Still, he had enjoyed the four kills, lovely young females that had hurt and bled for him and the others.
	He’d jerked off on his bunk in prison many times remembering those murders. It was the only thing that kept him going - the sick indulgent evil of his actions.
	He had fed on their suffering and death, just like he fed on the Winnfried family now.
	He knew that when he and Kessler’s men were finished there would be no trace left of them.  They would have been erased off the face of the earth.
And that knowledge contributed to his perverse pleasure.
	He’d spent sixteen long years behind bars and this was payback to Julie for helping put him away. Sweet fucking payback. 
	His anger and his sadism fused as he fucked Billy Winnfried.
	The demon inside him was white hot now and ready for blood.
	He slid out of the boy and reached down to cut him free of the tape that bound him.
	Swinging around he cut the rope from which Sandra hung by her ankles and he let the girl down to the floor, cradling her head in one hand, slowly releasing her and pulling her by one arm up on her feet. She tottered next to him dizzily, still taped-gagged, wrists tape-cuffed.
	Then he yanked Billy up by one arm also and pulled him to the door pushing Sandra out of the room ahead of them.
	“We’re gonna have some fun in the bathroom, fuckface,” he told Tim as he walked past him.
	“Just me and little Billy. Sandy’s gonna watch.”
	Tim Winnfried screamed into the duct tape and then began to sob loudly, choking, pleading brokenly, unintelligibly, for his children’s lives.

	
16. A Cool Drink
(Sunday 3 AM)

	Julie watched Kessler tip the plastic mineral-water bottle into his mouth and drink.
	She could see the moisture drops of condensation gleaming on the sides of the container.
	She licked her thirst-cracked lips.
	Robeson had stepped out of the room briefly after Kirkwood had left and he’d returned with two bottles, one for Kessler and one for himself.
	Both men had taken off their black hoods.
	Kirkwood had not returned.
	Julie knew where Kirkwood was and what he was doing. Little Ann Rowen’s suffering would be long and brutal.
	“Thirsty, bitch?” Kessler asked.
	Robeson smiled and took a swig from his own bottle.
	“I said: Are you thirsty?” he asked again, his eyes mean and scowling.
	She sobbed softly and nodded.
	He walked quickly toward her and swung his open hand across her face.
	She gave out a broken cry, her head spun back against the wooden post.
	“I told you never to shake your fucking head at me, didn’t I!?”
	“Y-yes, sir - y-yess - I - I’m s-s-sorry, sir.”
	She had been left bound on her knees against the column and her legs were sore and numb from the bondage.
	The rope around her neck bit deep and cut off enough circulation to make her dizzy, tiny black spots occasionally popping across her eyes.
	“The man asked you a question, cunt,” Robeson added. “He asked you if you were thirsty. Do you plan on answering him?”
	“Y-yess -” Julie whispered. “Yes, sir, I’m - I’m v-very thirsty -”
	“Oh - well - very thirsty - hmmm”
	Across the large room on the floor, some fifteen feet away from Julie, the broken carcass of Mara Lane lay in a puddle of blood.
	The young stripper had ended up on her twisted back, head craned at an impossible angle, mouth and eyes wide open.
	“Cut this bitch loose,” Kessler told Robeson tilting his head toward Julie as he moved toward Mara Lane’s gruesome corpse.
	“Let’s find out just how thirsty she really is.”
	As Robeson began to untie the ropes that held Julie on her knees against the post, Kessler leaned over the dead stripper’s body and tipped the bottle of water
into Mara’s gaping purple-lipped mouth.  He continued to pour until the liquid finally filled the dead woman’s oral cavity and spilled down her pale cheek and chin.
	Robeson untied the rope around Julie’s neck and she slid down to sit against the post.
	 Kessler pointed at the dead stripper’s head.
	“Here you go, pig,” he told Julie. “Drink.”
	“Oh G-Godd,” Julie moaned.
	“That’s the only way you’re gonna get it,” Robeson added. “If I was you I wouldn’t wait too long or you might not get it at all.”
	The men watched their beaten slaughter-slave try to get to her feet.
	They laughed as her legs kept giving out, her kneecaps beet-red.
	They sipped on the bottles gulping down the cool water.
	Julie finally began to crawl painfully toward the dead woman in the center of the room.
	Julie’s whole body hurt. She was covered with dark bruises, welts and piercings.  Her breasts started to bleed again.  But she managed to drag herself
to the remains of Mara Lane.
	The stench of the slaughtered, dismembered corpse was sharp but Julie’s thirst was impossible to ignore.
	She leaned over Mara’s pretty dead face and pressed her lips to the dead woman’s mouth.
	Julie’s eyes trailed down the stabbed legs of the murdered stripper to the fire-engine red shoes and the bloody toes.
	Red on red, she thought absurdly.
	The color of womandeath.
	The shattered end of the dancing.
	The water was still cool as she sucked it up desperately from Mara’s lips but it tasted of blood and rust and death.
	It tasted of spent pain and wasted flesh.
	Kessler and Robeson walked across the room to watch more closely as
Julie drained all the moisture from the dead stripper’s mouth, sucking loudly at the purple-painted lips, closing her eyes and thrusting her tongue in to lick the insides of the cheeks.
	Julie turned to the sadists.
	“More, p-pleease...more...”
	“The stupid cunt is still thirsty,” Robeson said with a dry smile. “Guess she wasn’t lyin’.”
	“Lets see what we can do about that,” Kessler replied.
	He bent down and pulled on one of the steel javelins that was still buried in Mara’s abdomen. With a grunt he yanked it out of the dead woman.
	It came with a nasty meaty sucking sound. A spill of broken flesh
and blood dribbled from the hole in the corpse which twitched briefly, one sandalled foot tilting, then lay still.
	“Woah!” Robeson commented with a chuckle.
	Standing over Mara’s head, Kessler balanced the javelin in his hand then drove the tip one-handedly down into the dead woman’s open eye gouging it out as Robeson laughed meanly.  Then he tossed the spear aside and emptied some more water from his bottle into the grossly gaping socket of the gouged out eye.
	“Go ahead, Julie,” he said matter-of-factly. 
	“Drink.”
	“Shit,” Robeson chuckled.
	Julie looked down at Mara’s face.
	The stripper had been a beautiful young woman full of life.
	She imagined the seductive face smiling sensually as the rainbow of disco lights and strobes spun and the music thumped and pumped.  
	Mara danced for the men spinning on red high heel shoes, spinning on to the metal bar and grabbing it between her thighs, spinning to the floor to fling her pretty legs wide open. The men looked at her young healthy pussy and threw money at her or pushed dollar bills between her tits.  She teased them, purple-lipped mouth wide open, eyes sparkling as she showed them her cunt, took the dollar bills in her teeth and kicked her legs up in the air, turned and waggled her asscheeks at them.
	‘Don’t be afraid, Julie,’ Mara said as she lay there used up, the music fading, echoing into silence, the colored lights gone.
	‘...the killing pain is so nice...to die for them Julie...is so nice...to take their need into your skin and die dancing bloody for your Masters...don’t be afraid... drink, Julie....drink from me...you still have a ways to go...drink now...’
	Julie began to cry again and as the men watched her, oblivious to her psychotic visions, she bent over the dead woman’s face.
	She hesitated only briefly before putting her lips to Mara’s gouged out eye and thrusting her tongue into the cold, bloody water.
	Robeson cupped his balls in his free hand and smiled. His cock was starting to tingle again.
	He tipped his bottle back and drank.
	Kessler looked down at Julie and stroked himself slowly, already hard and ready for more action.
	Soon Riemann would arrive.
	Soon Kirkwood would be finished with Ann Rowen.
	It was time to start working on the remaining captives.

17. Little Ann Punished
(Sunday 4 AM)

	Extreme sadistic indulgence took Bill Kirkwood to a heightened state of awareness. He could actually watch himself bullwhip the little girl from above, from an overhead vantage point, like some kind of flying demon. 
	He watched himself raise the lash back and bring it down whistling through the room to strike his twisting sweat-glossed suspended victim. 
	It would unfurl and snap to wrap around her small body sometimes in three distinct twirls making her turn her suffering face upward in wide-mouthed screaming pain.
	Whappp - app - app!
	Snaking around her hips, her belly, her chest, her shoulders, her sturdy little thighs.
	Whoosh - oosh - oosh!
	The whip was like a serpent, hungry for childmeat, attacking with blurring speed, wrapping constrictedly around its shuddering victim.
	Or it would slam into her with one heavy whummpp! hotly knocking the wind out of her lungs.
	Kirkwood was able to visualize the little blonde girl’s punishment from all angles.
	From far back and from close up.  He flew in at her on the end of the lash and tore at her warm skin and tasted the coppery richness of her blood.
	Her screams were so fucking beautiful. He could see them, almost as if they were visual objects, silvery, red, violet, streaking through the air around him as he flew, fragmenting into thousands of confetti-like bits.
	He could look into her soul and feel her agony and her confusion and her demented innocent terror.
	The lash landed on her so heavily, so full of weight on that fragile pale body, on on those fragile still immature limbs and she would almost leap off the impaling log, so full of young energy.
	Kirkwood liked to watch the little girls at school when he picked up  Leanne, especially in the summer, in their little shorts, tanned legs running, so full of life, laughing, carefree, beautiful.  He’d watch them at the pool near the park, not yet women, thin bodies gleaming wet, already shapely, already knowing how to move in their little bikinis to draw male attention.
	He wanted to destroy that.
	Yeah. Destroy it.
	Put a fucking end to it.
	Make them hurt.
	And that’s why he whipped the little bitch hard.
	As hard as he could, taking out all his fierce undeserved hatred of female on her. 
	He smiled and grunted remembering how the spears had slammed into the stripper’s broken body, how Robeson, Kessler and he had gouged out Mara Lane’s worthless fucked up life.
	That’s what all women deserved. Women and girls.
	That and this.
	Vicious, unchecked, slashing pain.
	That’s what they all deserved.
	Fucking tease-cunts.
	Take my anger, he told the child with each hard swinging blow. Take my need to break you. Suffer for me.
	He loved the thunder-clap sound of the big lash on her.
	And he swung again and again, harder and harder.
	It was just so fucking great to bullwhip a small defenseless child.
	He watched as his demonic spirit hovered above her. He studied her contorted suffering intently, swooped down and stared into her weeping eyes, drank in her breath exhaled with each cry.
	The sound of each impact, that triple swish, or the single hard whump of leather on girlskin, was so deeply intoxicating.
	He was covering her in welts, tearing her flesh, bruising her as she hung there screaming and sobbing and wailing in mortal anguish.	
	Moving around her, circling, he continued to flog, driving the braided
lash mercilessly across her tiny budding tits, making the tip of the bullwhip
tear away at her dangling legs, at her sweet belly. 
	She was pissing herself, yellow rivulets running down the insides of her thighs, down the impaling log and puddling on the floor.
	She was tossing her little head back, all flushed, and shrieking with everything she had....and she had so much. He was amazed by the living energy in her, how it bloomed, coaxed into being by the savagery of his bullwhip.
	“YEa-AHH!” he shouted and tore at her small hips that would never fill with child.
	She began to scream and babble for her mother and her sister and he tore away at her.
	He sliced at her face, at her little feet that would never again run in the playground at school or at the public pool, like the little bitches he’d watched, going up on their little toes to jump off the diving board gracefully as ballerinas, head-first into the cool clear water.
	She was his little bitch now. His and no one else’s. She belonged not to her church or to her school, or to her country or to her parents - none of them owned her, only he. She belonged to her killer, belonged as she had never and would never belong to anybody else.  There was love in his need to beat and kill her. Deep hungry evil love. He loved the little scumbag, loved her blood, and her flesh and her pain. Loved her deeper and harder than her own momma. He tore his love into her, scored it deep into her tender skin, made her bounce on the impaling log, kick her small weighed-down feet, shriek at the ceiling, her arms yanking against the cuffs that held her suspended for him and his love and his wrath. She was deeply his, hung there for him, to satisfy him, to give him pleasure with her blood and her flesh. She was more than a daughter could ever be to a father, more than Leanne could ever be to him (unless Leanne too could be brought to the warehouse to suffer and scream)... Ann Rowen was his  kill. Her life was his, her soul, her spirit was his. (Leanne too needed to be his, just like this, turning, twisting, crying under his lash, making the chains rattle with sudden graceless angling movements. She would be - had to be - and soon.)
	If people out in the world could see, if they could know, they would be
sickened and horrified, they would call for his immediate and painful execution.
How can someone do this to a child? To a CHILD? That’s what they would rant on about.
	Didn’t they see this need burned in every male heart, in the hormone circuitry of every male brain?
	He, unlike most, had simply chosen not to repress it.
	How would you like it if it happened to YOUR daughter? They would ask.
	It is going to happen to my own daughter, Kirkwood thought, as he snapped the lash across Ann Rowen’s thighs, baring his teeth in a savage sneer.
	It is most definitely  gonna happen to my own goddamned daughter.
	Shit, yeah. Leanne’s going to suffer as much or worse than this little pig.
	Kirkwood’s sick need overpowered him and drove him to the edge of sanity.  He was like a wild stallion running ahead of the stampeding herd toward a cliff, unable to stop himself, in fact, urging himself to more and more viciousness, flogging the child mercilessly.
	He had not just chosen simply to liberate his sadism.  He had let it fucking blossom and take over.
	He was letting it ROCK! He was going for the fuckin’ GOLD!	
	Little Ann Rowen’s body burned. Each cut was like a slashing flame. She coughed and choked and vomited as the whip bit fiercely at her sides and at her
pretty pink asscheeks.  Her thrashing movements were forcing her to grind herself down into the three-inch thich impaling log, the tip of which had already pierced deep into her undeveloped uterus. The metal spikes all along the length of the log were tearing her cunt-skin and the inside of her small vaginal passage and the insides of her thighs.  Each time Kirkwood ripped at her back she was pushed forward and with each savage blow the log sank deeper.  Soon it was at the pit of her intestines. When the killer circled around and whipped her chest she pushed backward and the log slid half-way up into her stomach.  She retched blood and bile.  She shit bloody streamers of faeces.  Her lovely blue eyes stared straight ahead, glassy as marbles, teary, bloodshot, as the flogging tore at her legs and shifted her from side to side, making her fuck the big wooden spear.
	She would never know a man’s love, only this thick log penetrating her body.
	She would never feel sexual pleasure, only this violent spiked wooden pain, only horror.
	Those thoughts excited Kirkwood even more and he beat his little victim even harder hoping she wouldn’t pass out so that he wouldn’t have to stop.
	When finally she did faint with a mewling gasp he stepped up to her and pushed the ammonia vial under her nose.
	As soon as she came to he stepped back and tore into her again.
	How could someone do this to a CHILD?
	Yes. It was awesomely beautiful and incredibly fulfilling to do it precisely to a CHILD. A girl child.
	She took nearly twenty cuts before fainting once more.
	Again he brought her around.
	Again he stepped back and swung the lash.
	Slash after slash after slash.
	Sweating and trembling with rage he stopped - but not immediately.
	It was like holding back a bucking rodeo bull.
	He struck three blows, one after the other.
	Then two more.
	Then he took a deep breath -
	 and delivered one last killing slash across her middle which made her
twist and strain against her cuffed wrists and which sank her further on the log and which made her give out a long ultra-shrill wailing cry.
	Now it was time to get up close and personal.
	He dropped the lash and moved toward the suspended child.
	He touched her with his fingertips, first running his hands up and down her punished body slowly, gently, lovingly, feeling her hot bruised welted flesh. The bullwhip had left its imprint on his unfortunate cherub, bumpy irregular welts that crossed and criss-crossed the skin like lines of braille, wide braid-thatched marks, dark red, purple and almost black in some places.
	Ann moaned and quivered to his touch as he ran his hands down her sides, down to her whipped thighs and legs, all the way down to her shackled feet.
	He was possessed by his sick evil greed for the beaten child.
	Crouching on one knee he unbuckled the heavy barbell weights and took them off her ankles. Her feet were scratched from the spikes on the log’s surface and almost blue from the curtailed circulation by the barbell straps.  He massaged the small limbs making the child groan and whine feebly.  Heat was coming off her body and he could smell her sour sweat mixed with bullwhip leather. Moving in close he rubbed her foot on his swollen cockhead pressing his meat against 
the bottom of her tiny well-formed toes, the small one which he’d earlier crushed between his teeth now swollen and twisted, the big toe he’d almost bitten off slightly discolored.  He rubbed his cock against her ankle bones over the skin that had been chafed by the ankle strap and up the side of her calve as he stood raising and bending her leg, squeezing his cock against her whipmarked knee and thigh, relishing the sensation of her beaten skin against his  hard hot shaft.  The back of her thigh had borne savage impacts and was streaked with thick welts and cuts that smeared his cockmeat with her blood.  He leaned down to lick at her upraised leg, his tongue tracing the tiny ridges of pain he’d marked her with, and his fingers moved over the perimeter of the penetrating log firmly lodged in her stretched and torn vaginal opening.
	Standing over her, her slim ankle in his hand, holding her leg up, he let his eyes roam slowly over her beaten body and up to her pretty face as she grimaced in pain and fear. Her head sagged and moved from side to side.
	“Look at me,” he said softly.
	Sniffling and making small moaning sounds the child raised her eyes to her killer.  Framed between her upraised arms her pale face was exquisite. Tears streamed all the way down to her tiny chin and her lips were parted and moist, swollen, the color of rosepetals.  Golden blonde hair strands clung to her sweaty forehead. Her ears were pinned back against her upraised arms and several welts marred her cheeks and wound around her upper arms.  One cut spilled a single drop of blood down the side of her face and neck. Another grazed the top of her upper lip. Another had torn across her nostril and up the bridge of her nose.
One of her eyelids was slightly swollen and bruised and her clear blue pupils
glowed doll-like with the wonderful life energy that still pumped in her body.
	Kirkwood could see the mass of the log pushing her belly out. One good tug on both of her ankles would finish her, driving the sharp log spear
up into her rib-cage, perhaps tearing through her diaphragm.
	The killer considered the possibility. He already had a firm grip on one ankle.  All he had to do was reach down and take the other while she was still lost in his eyes and pull her down...hard...
	Instead he dropped her leg slowly and stepped back to the crank lever on the wall.
	He still needed more.
	Slowly he began to hoist little Ann Rowen up off the impaling log.	
	“Owwhhh!” the child cried out, her head tipping backward.
	“Jessie - owwww - mom-mma -” she cried deliriously. “I h-have to
g-go to the b-bathroom - The man, Jessie - look out! He’s so big! mmhggg -
it’s coming outta me - oohhgghh -”
	Kirkwood stroked himself slowly watching Ann Rowen pissing herself again, babbling and rising off the log, her viscera and blood and urine spilling down the sides of the impaling spear.
	When she was completely free, up off the bloody wooden tip he locked the crank lever in position went back to his victim and pulled the log out of the way.
	Now standing in front of her, his bare feet in the puddle of blood and urine on the floor, her face almost level with his shoulders, he raised both her legs in his hands and placed his bone-hard erection to the wound the log had left in her.  Moving his hands to her whipped asscheeks he pushed slightly forward until his cock began to slide up into the torn bloody gash.
	“Oww - don’t let Jessie die - aahhgg -” she cried out as he dipped his
prick in her. “Ohhggg mommmieeeee!”
	Gripping her hard and going up on his toes, her blood dripping from his heels, Kirkwood fucked the dying broken girl-child with slow rhythmic thrusts, leaning in to kiss and lick her arms and shoulders, to lick the blood from the cuts his whip had left on her.  His strong athletic frame dwarfed her small suspended body.  Grossly disproportionate and cruel, a six-foot-two man torturing and fucking a captive four-foot-five little girl was nevertheless incredibly dramatic and stunningly obscenely beautiful.  Predator and victim moved to a primal thrusting rhythm both were powerless to control. Kirkwood pulled back out and slid back into the wide wound, his cock slicked with Ann’s blood and bits of her guts, with bits of her ruptured bladder and uterus and brown flecks of faeces.
	He pulled out and stepped back to push his fist up into the screaming babbling victim, jamming it in and out of her, fucking her with it, looking up at her suffering face. She was so fucking pretty. He pushed his hand up into her, as if he could find the source of her living energy, deep, almost to his elbow, and he stretched out his fingers feeling around to seize a strand of lower intestine, tugging at it, making her howl, her legs stretching out, toes pointed at the floor, a short squeal from her as the grayish gut-strand stretched and tore. He pulled it out of her pussy and let it drop to the floor crouching under her to lovingly nuzzle the grisly wound, the smell of her bloody innards inspiring him to bite and tear at what was left of her tiny cunt-lips; he bit her welted belly and thighs and rubbed his cheeks against her hot broken skin, to let her bleed on his chest, pieces of her, blood, faeces, trailing down his cheeks and shoulder, tangled in his dark sweaty hair. Then he got to his feet again to slam his cock up into her, hilting himself up to his balls in her quivering flesh, grabbing on to her to hug her to him, to ram himself up into her torn insides, first kissing her like a lover then growling, biting her neck and face, eventually punching her fiercely as he drove and wedged himself into her.
	Still he needed more from his helpless suspended child victim.
	Always more.
	He slid out of her and went to the drawer cabinet.
	Looking down he saw his feet leaving bloody imprints on the stone floor.
	When he turned back toward her he had a handful of small fishing hooks.
	Still halfway across the room he was stopped by the sight of her.
	She hung weakly by her arms, hands dark blue, legs moving up and down slowly as if she were pedalling an invisible bicycle.
	He watched her for a few moments, jerking off, thinking about what he was going to do her next.
	Then he followed the line of his own bloody footprints on the floor back to his hapless captive.

18. Boykill
(Sunday 4 AM)

	Twenty three miles away, in Seabrook, in the bathroom of the Winnfried house, another female child, Julie’s daughter, Sandy, tried to keep from choking by standing way up on her toes, small pretty red-painted toes, dainty feet steeply arched against the cold blue floor tiles.
	Riemann had slung the rope over the bathroom door after both kids were in with him and he’d pushed her back to loop the end of the cord around her small neck.  He’d left her wrists duct-taped behind her and as he pulled on the rope and knotted it to the doorknob on the other side, she’d been yanked up almost off her feet, gagged and unable to cry out, making funny little noises in her throat.  When he closed the door, pinching the rope between its top edge and the wooden frame Sandy realized that she would have to stand up on her toes, leaning back against the closed door, pushing her butt against the cold wood, if she wanted to breathe.
	Just a few days before she and her mommy had played together, painting each other’s finger and toe-nails a pretty wine red.  Sandy’s little scrabbling toes were still painted and she could look down and see them down below for just a second before the rope would choke and cut into her.
	Trembling with terror she’d watched the killer lead her brother who had just stood helplessly by, tears streaming from his eyes, into the tub.
	Riemann was so tall that he had to merely reach up to the ceiling to pry off the hood off the ventilation fan.
	After he strung Sandy to the door, he looped a strand of rope around the overhead fan box and tied the other end around young Billy’s neck.
	He yanked on the opposite end of the rope until Billy started gagging, his little fingers trying to pry the biting cord from his neck.
	“Stop that, you fucking little maggot!” Riemann shouted at him. “Put your hands down!” His voice boomed in the big tiled bathroom and as the frightened sniffling boy obeyed, the killer wound the loose end of the rope around the handbasin faucet behind him, forcing the twelve year old, like his sister, up on his toes.
	“Turn around,” Rieman told Billy.
	The boy obeyed quickly spinning around to face the tiled wall.
	He could see the killer behind him reflected in the sky-blue tiles and beyond his sister hanging by her neck against the closed door, surging and collapsing, her legs in constant motion under her.
	The bathroom had no windows. It was in the middle of the house and Billy knew that even in daytime if he were to scream his head off no one outside would hear.
	Riemann then wound strands of rope around each of the boy’s wrists. He pulled one wrist line up to the showerhead and the other to a towel bar on the opposite side of the tub-stall knotting each, pulling the lines tightly, securing the boy in a spread-eagled, crucified position offering Riemann his back.
	Then the nude killer bent down and took the boy’s right leg to fold it back, binding the ankle to the thigh, making poor Billy stand uncertainly on one tip-toe leg. As he handled the child Riemann enjoyed the fact that his victim had small prettily shaped feet, just like his little sister.
	The tall tattooed agressor now drew the big shiny blade from its sheath which was clipped to a brown leather belt he’d tightly buckled around his waist, commando style.
	Behind him, staring at the huge colorful dragon which now came alive under the halogen lights recessed in the bathroom ceiling, little Sandy Winnfried began to whimper at the sight of the terrible weapon in his hand.
	“Alright, boy,” Riemann told Billy.
	The halogen lights reflected on the blue-tiled floor and Sandy could see the monster reflected in them, inverted, his massive balls and long phallus between his massive thighs.
	Her brother Billy was having trouble balancing himself on one arched foot. The rope around his neck was strangling him and the ones around his wrists were tied so tight they were cutting off the blood supply to his hands.
	“I’m going to hurt you,” Riemann continued, his eyes gleaming fiercely as he looked at Billy’s flexing shoulderblades, at his round little butt, at the
single standing leg, as shapely as a girl’s.
	“Do you understand?”
	“Y-yess - yes sir -”
	“What did I just say to you?”
	“Y-You - You’re g-gonna hurt - m-me.”
	“Good. You’re a good boy, Billy. Yes you are. Smart too. I really enjoyed fucking you in front of your father.”
	The killer reached out with his free hand to touch the boy’s side.
	“Your little asshole was real sweet, Billy. Real sweet...mmmm...”
	The skin was warm and smooth.
	“ - and tight. Yessir. Just the way a boy’s ass should be.”
	Billy shut his eyes tightly and shrank from the killer’s caress but could not escape it.
	Riemann moved his hand down to the boy’s strong jutting hip bone, the hip above the standing leg.
	He licked his lips.
	He studied the boy’s asscheeks.
	In the soft light of the bathroom the child’s soft butt-skin fairly glowed.
	Riemann stroked the warm smooth flesh slowly with the back of his hairy fingers.
	Sandy watched the killer’s feet slither apart on the reflective floor tiles.
	“Here’s the thing, Billy...I’m going to torture you....mm-hmm...I’m going to torture you - but I want you not to scream.  Do you know why Billy?”
	Billy didn’t know if the killer was asking him why he didn’t want him to scream or why he was going to torture him.
	“N-no - no sir -” he gasped.
	“Well,” Riemann explained, bringing the sharp knife blade to the base of Billy’s spine. “If you scream or cry for help I’ll kill your little sister.”
	The boy whimpered helplessly.
	“I’ll kill her nice and slow and make you and your dad watch.”
	The killer’s voice was emotionless, factual.
	“You got that Billy boy?”
	“Yes - uhm - yes, sir.”
	Billy could feel the cold hard blade against his tail bone.
	Sandy labored to breathe as she looked at the dragon on Riemann’s back.
	“I don’t know if anyone would hear you or not,” Riemann continued. “But I don’t want to take any fucking chances.”
	“Is that clear?” Riemann asked curtly.
	“Yess - sir -”
	“You’re such a respectful little fuck, Billy.  Mmmm - I really did enjoy fucking you.   Your ass is so much tighter than your dad’s, so fuckin’ sweet...”
	Riemann’s hand now moved up to the boy’s left shoulder to grip his outstretched arm.	
	“I’m going to cut you now, boy.  Keep as quiet as you can - ok?”
	“O-o-ok - p-please don’t hurt my sister -”
	Riemann said nothing, waited for a moment and then drew the blade
across the middle of Billy’s back, from right to left at his waist, pushing the
sharp serrated metal edge into the smooth young skin.
	Billy’s whole body responded, his standing leg tensed up and he curled the toes of his upraised bound foot involuntarily.  His tied hands closed into fists and he stretched upward, his cute head tilting back. He made a low gasping noise but did not cry out.
	Sandy gasped and kicked against the bathroom door.
	Blood droplets sailed down Billy’s buttocks, down the thigh of the standing leg, down the calve and the heel of his foot to the floor of the tub. Blood dripped off the knee of the up-raised leg, down into his balls and off the tip of his 
pretty little cock in ruby-red droplets.
	“Good boy,” Riemann sighed, raising the blade to the boy’s right shoulder.
	Still gripping his victim’s arm tightly, his fingers wrapped completely around Billy’s bound limb, the killer drew a long slice from the boy’s shoulder, over the shoulderblade, down the curving back and through the cut he’d made
just before at his waist.
	“Nnggggghh!” Billy groaned as his body fought the terrible burning pain.
	To keep himself from screaming the boy was biting his lip.
	“You’re wondering why I’m hurting you, aren’t you, boy?” Riemann asked softly, speaking to the back of Billy’s blonde head.
	The long cut spilled blood down the youth’s back.  Where the two cuts intersected a small flap of flesh hung loosely.
	Riemann pushed the tip of the knife into Billy’s right asscheek just hard enough to nick him. 	
	The boy moved to the cut but did not make a sound.
	Riemann nicked him again slightly harder.
	“Aren’t you?” he asked again.
	He watched Billy jump and angle his head as blood trickled from the small new cuts.
	“GGhh- ye-yesss!”
	Riemann touched the boy’s bleeding wounds, followed them with his fingers, considering each one like a devout priest fingering his rosary beads in prayer.
	“Owwww,” Billy moaned softly.
	“Shhh,” Riemann hissed.
	“As long as I’m hurting you I’m not hurting Sandy, Billy boy...that’s all you need to know right now...I’m going to give you more.  Remember about Sandy, ok?”
	“Mm-hmm,” the boy replied after a moment.
	“Say: yes, sir, Mr. Riemann,” the killer ordered.
	“Y-es - yes, sir -uhm - M-mister Rie-Riemann.”
	“Such a polite boy.”
	“Say: I’m ready for your big knife Mr. Riemann, sir.”
	The boy began to sob softly, brokenly.
	Behind Riemann Billy’s little sister gasped and squealed, tears spilling down her duct-taped face.  Her feet were cramped from having to stand on her toes and the pain was shooting up her stiff legs.
	“Stop your bawlin’ and say it, boy!” Riemann snarled.
	“ -uhm - I’m r-ready - ready for - your -” he sobbed brokenly then continued. “ - for your b-big knife - M-mister R-Riemann - s-sir.”
	The killer touched the tip of his blade to his young victim’s left shoulderblade and he drew the knife all the way down the boy’s back again cutting through the bleeding slice at Billy’s waist.
	As the boy tensed and hissed and threw his little blonde head back Riemann released his shoulder and crouched on one knee to press the big serrated knife
into Billy’s standing leg, into the thigh, pushing it in deep as he drew it down to the boy’s kneehollow, past the kneehollow, as Billy whined and trembled, all the way down the arched leg to the heel which hovered off the floor.
	“-gggghhh!” Billy grunted. “ - pleeeeezze -”
	“Please what?” Riemann snarled.
	“N-no more - pleeeze!”
	“Oh I’ve got a lot more for you Billy Boy - a  lot  more!”
	Riemann grabbed the ankle of the boy’s standing leg and yanked it out from under him.
	The wrist ropes and the neck rope now took Billy’s weight, the towel bar and the shower-head thumping noisily, the boy’s hands twisting, opening and closing as he began to choke and gasp for air.
	Sandy began to make frantic whining noises as she watched the killer torture her big brother.
	Billy’s blood spattered the tub and the cuts the dragon man had made on him had not stopped bleeding.
	“You little fuck!” Riemann growled and he lifted the down-pointing knife over his head gripping Billy’s ankle in his hand bending the free leg back to turn the boy’s footsole upward.
	Sandy screamed into the duct-tape feebly and her heels thumped against the bathroom door.
	Down the hall, on the plastic-covered bed, Tim Winnfried sobbed and flailed weakly, splashing the scarlet puddle he lay in.  He was dying from blood loss and he could hear his children in the bathroom.  He heard the strained attenuated sounds from Billy and the dark deep voice of the killer. He heard the banging on the closed door and Sandy’s gagged whining but he had no idea what was happening.  Surely the animal was killing them in there. Dear God, his children were being raped and butchered and he could do nothing to stop it.
	Angrily, Riemann stabbed the big serrated Rambo knife into Billy’s up-turned footsole as he held the struggling lad’s leg by the ankle.
	The blade went almost all the way through slicing into muscle and bone, slicing Billy’s artery.  Blood gushed from the pretty pierced foot spattering on
Riemann’s cock and thighs, on the bathroom floor, on the tub.
	The boy made a snarling whining gasping sound and bit his lip so hard now to keep from screaming that his teeth tore the skin and he bled down his chin.  He knew that the man was probably going to kill him and then rape and kill Sandy
but all he had was the hope that following his tormentor’s instructions could
spare his little sister.  So he did as he was told, giving the killer deep pleasure.
 	With savage smiling intent Riemann dragged the knifeblade down the boy’s pierced foot to the toes before yanking it out tearing the flesh open.
	He released the wounded limb letting Billy try to stand on it again, twisting and sobbing and shaking with pain, blood squirting from his foot and thigh, the tub slippery with it, the walls speckled with it.
	Riemann leaned forward to rub his erection against the boy’s ass, smearing the blood trails on the dimpled cheeks, pushing the aching corona against the
torn thigh flesh, and up into the dripping slice at the boy’s waistline.
	The killer reached up to grab the rope that hung from the ventilation fan and he yanked on it hauling Billy upward by his neck, stopping the breath in him, the boy’s flushed head angled to one side as Riemann stepped into the bloody tub and slid his prick straight up against the suspended child’s asshole.
	Penetration was easier this time because of the lubricating blood and because  little Billy’s butthole had already been mercilessly raped, but it was still slow going and impossibly tight.
	When Riemann released the rope the boy slid down on to his hard meat deliciously bleeding all over the tall knife-wielding assailant.
	The killer leaned forward to sink his teeth into the boy’s ear then to lick it as it bled and to whisper softly:
	“I’m going to kill you, Billy - you - your father - your sister - and your mother - I’m going to kill all of you...”
	“Pleeease - sir - pleeeease -”
	“Please nothing you little fuck. Please nothing.”
	The killer reamed the boy’s ass with his cock in and out, reaching up to pull him up and down by the choking rope.
	He cut at the boy with his knife while he fucked him, cut at his sides and arms and shoulders.
	Billy’s blood smelled up the room and stained the blue tiles and as Riemann’s knife-sliced the young boy’s flesh over and over urine shot from
the child’s cock hissing, spattering the wall.
	“You fucking little pig!” Riemann snarled.
	He stepped back, slid his cock out of Billy and plunged the big Rambo knife right up into the boy’s rectum, slamming the blade deep, ripping and gouging out
the soft meat to yank the knife out and thrust his big manmeat back into his
writhing groaning victim.
	Billy Winnfried had started to die, his body traumatized into shock.
	From where she hung on the bathroom door, Sandy could not really see what the dragon man was doing to Billy.  She saw him climb into the tub and reach down and raise Billy up with the choking rope and then let him down.
She watched him yank her wheezing brother up and down and watched the man’s big buttocks clench and his hips grind and she imagined he was putting his big
peepee in Billy just like he’d done in daddy-and-mommy’s bedroom earlier but she wasn’t sure. Then she saw him use the knife hard on Billy, only to move in again and thrust himself back into her brother, and all she knew was that Billy was bleeding and hurting and that her dad was messed up real bad and that no one would be there to help her if they both died. Her ten year old mind, sheltered by the quiet small town upbringing she’d had, shielded by her conscientious parents (especially her repressed mother) from even the slightest hint of death and violence television and films would offer, could not cope with the events she was witnessing or with their possible outcome.  She was on the verge of going unconscious from the lack of blood to her head, becoming dazed and delusional.  For Sandy, the dragon on Riemann’s back seemed to come alive.  It seemed to envelop its human host as though it had just been taking a piggy-back ride there but was now ready to climb down and stand on its own.  Its ugly head was drooling and snarling, nostrils blowing flames, and its long tail curling and uncurling as it reared up on its clawed legs, its scaly body suddenly fully dimensional, smelling of blood and piss.  Sandy saw it now step back out of the bathtub growling meanly, huffing, doing something she could not understand to itself, as though it needed to work itself up, one of its claws down in its crotch, working, the other raised to strike.
	“You little piece of shit!” It roared inhumanly and she saw the claw
slice down and heard the meaty thump as it struck Billy’s bleeding back, just
below his right shoulder blade.
	For Riemann who was completely oblivious of Sandra’s distorted reality, and whose own mind was chillingly sharpened to utmost clarity by his
savage lust, the mortal blow to the young boy was gloriously beautiful.
	Perfect.
  	He thrust the long serrated knife into Billy’s back just below
the right shoulderblade ramming it through, breaking two ribs and piercing
right into the boy’s lung.  A sigh of air escaped the gaping wound as Riemann
yanked the knife out.
	“Whhhuuuggghhh!” Billy gasped, his head falling forward, his skull banging against the blue-tiled wall in front of him.
	Shit and blood poured from his knife-gouged asshole.
	Shooting bright streaks exploded in Sandy’s eyes as she watched the slow boy-kill in mind-twisting horror.  The dragon was mindlessly angry and it was raising its blood-streaked claw to strike again.  She screeched her throat raw but 
her cry was diffused by the duct tape around her mouth and the choke-rope
at her throat.  She pissed herself in terror (just like the other little girl twenty three miles away at the Vanner warehouse when Kirkwood’s whip had roared across her suspended body) yellow drip lines running down Sandy’s kicking legs, puddling on the floor, her red-painted toes slipping against the wet tile as she tried to keep from hanging herself on the rope.
	Riemann slammed his knife into Billy just below the first blood-spilling wound-hole, slicing through intercostal nerves, the serrated edge of the blade scraping the boy’s spinal cord, the tip of the knife gashing out a larger
rip in the already collapsing lung.  Hot gulps of blood filled Billy’s twitching mouth and he choked. Mucous and blood shot from his nostrils and lips spraying on the wall in front of him.
	“Yyhhhgggg!” the young victim choke-sputtered,  his blonde head craning back, doomed eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling, seeming to plead with
an uncaring God out there in the stars, outside the Winnfried house, over
Seabrook, over the forest that surrounded the Vanner warehouse and the small grave markers behind it at the edge of the trees, somewhere in the Universe, a God who took no interest at all and who in fact had sent the homicidal demon to the luckless family in the middle of a tranquil cloudless night.
	As Riemann yanked the big knife out of the wounded boy Billy’s head slammed forward again into the tiled wall.
	Eyes slitted, his face twisted with viciousness, Riemann plunged the bloody serrated weapon deep into the dying boy’s left buttock ramming it against the pelvic bone and tearing it out to gash muscle and flesh.
	Crouching on one knee he took Billy’s scrotum in his hand and pulled it down to slice his male victim’s little balls off slowly, pushing the blade into the tender flesh, Billy’s blood spewing from the ripped anal passage running down onto Riemann’s hand, blood from the gashed ball-bag spurting on to his face as the killer smiled.
	Weakly Billy moaned weakly and continued to spill blood from his mouth as he stared down at the blue bathtub now coated with red gore.  His mind spun back and suddenly he was very small. His mother was bathing him in this
same tub, gently rubbing his belly with a soapy sponge.  A blue and white toy boat bobbed in the shallow water.  His little pink feet splashed.  His mom was laughing.
	“You’re my little golden boy,” she was saying lovingly, kissing his wet forehead. “Mmmmm momma’s little golden boy.”
	Only now momma’s little golden boy was having his balls cut off, the killer’s knife finally slicing them from his body, Riemann peeling the small sacs loose, crushing them with his free hand against his stiff rod, rubbing the hot fleshy mess all along its length, dribbles of gore and blood dripping off his cock-knob. Then he tossed them to the floor of the bathroom behind him while Sandy watched the careless spatter of her brother’s flesh, whinnying, eyes fluttering as she gasped for air.
	Riemann stepped into the tub under the arc of his victim’s  bound outstretched left arm and turned to stand between the castrated boy and the wall, face to face with him.
	He grabbed Billy Winnfried’s head to look into his dying brown eyes.
	The tiles felt cold against the killer’s broad tatooed back, wet from the boy’s life fluids. Billy’s flat chest pressed into Riemann’s hard pectorals.
	“...such a - good - little - boy -”
	Gently Riemann leaned down to kiss Billy on his gasping little mouth.  He drank the boy’s blood and prodded deep into him with his tongue tasting his victim lost in the scent of his breath and as he did he raised the tip of the knife to Billy’s lower abdomen, just above his groin.
	Slowly, enjoying young Billy’s arched brows and terrible grimace of pain, still licking blood off his victim’s cheeks and lips, Riemann began to push the 
big blade into the boy’s quaking body.  He looked down to watch it enter
to watch it puncture the tender skin and slide inward as he kept the pressure steady.  The flesh, pushed to its maximum tension, eventually gave, tearing, allowing the knife to  pierce through, coming up against the wall of the boy’s belly, finding only temporary resistance, bending, stretching, finally yielding, the blade cutting into Billy’s warm colon and intestines.
	“Uuuuwwwwwwhhhhhh!” the boy groaned squirming, his arms yanking
on the suspending ropes as the knife gut-fucked him.
	Bloody shit spurted from his ravaged asshole and rolled down his standing leg joining the scarlet streams already pouring from his mutilated scrotum.
	Riemann was amazed and delighted that the boy was still conscious.
	He pushed the knife almost all the way through Billy, until
he’d cut through most of the boy’s lower gut sac. The killer suspected the gastric and iliac arteries had now been severed because the boy started to squirm and go pale, and fresh streams of blood fountained up from him.
	There wasn’t much time left for his victim now.
	Quickly Riemann pulled the knife out.
	Hot blood spurted on the killer’s thighs and on his cock and balls as he stroked himself.
	Riemann rubbed the warm fluid into his skin as it spilled down his legs.
	He reached down and took Billy’s penis, stretched it upwards and
sliced it clean off the boy’s groin.
	A violent shudder exploded through Billy and a faint effeminate cry.
	Then, reaching up for the strangling rope as he dropped the severed
organ to the floor of the tub, Riemann tugged as hard as he could on the 
rope around the boy’s neck.
	Just as she passed out, Sandy saw her brother rising toward the ceiling fan, blood and shit squirting out of him, the dragon grinning up at him with
red insane eyes, and then she heard a loud dry crack as Billy’s neck snapped - Billy’s free leg, sliced and gored kicked out hard against the bathroom wall knocking a heavy shampoo bottle off the corner of the tub.  The bottle fell to the bloody tiles with a heavy thump and rolled a couple of times toward the wall.
	On the bloody plastic tarp-sheet in the bedroom Tim came to for a moment
and heard banging and gasping coming from the bathroom then the room
seemed to spin and evaporate and he was blacking out again.  A blurry
image of Billy running in the park, running down toward the pond barefoot on a warm spring day years before, came and went through his mind.
	Riemann held the boy up on the strangling cord until Billy went completely limp... Then he let him drop.  Sagging heavily in death, his head angled to the right, neck stretched and swollen, the boy’s carcass strained the suspension ropes to their limit.
	Stepping out of the tub once more, Riemann cut first the rope that held Billy’s right arm to the showerhead.  The boy’s arm fell to his side and his body slumped in that direction no longer sustained by the cord.  
	Riemann then cut the left arm free and Billy hung dead, rag-limp, all hundred and five pounds of him by his neck from the ventilation fan box which had been nearly torn loose in the death-struggle,  and which now protruded slightly from the ceiling spilling bits of concrete and white dust.
	Reaching up Riemann cut the neck rope and Billy’s dead body
slammed down into the tub, bound leg breaking as he crashed down on the
knee, tipping sideways, his head bounding first against the shower faucet handles and then against the chrome spigot before falling to the bloody tub floor, the free leg twitching twice, the knife-gouged foot ending  propped up on the bathtub ledge.
 	The killer then turned to Billy’s sister hanging on the bathroom door.
	With another quick cut he sliced the rope that held her upright by her neck and she toppled down and forward on to the toilet to bounce off and roll to the floor.
	He leaned down to check her pulse.
	She was still alive.
	He was pleased. He and Kessler had important plans for the ten year old and Riemann didn’t want them spoiled prematurely.
	Right now he needed to fuck her, to break her little cunt, and if her
daddy wasn’t already dead to make him watch.
	He leaned down and grabbed Sandy’s brown mane then opening the bathroom door he dragged her along by her head moving down the hall toward the main bedroom.
	He dumped the flush-faced unconscious child on the floor and clearing magazines, books and a lamp from the night table, knocking everything to the floor by the bed, he pulled the table out into the center of the room, in front of Tim Winnfried’s inert body. Going to the bound broken man he yanked on his blonde hair, shook him by the shoulders until his raped victim’s moribund eyes rolled up to look at his killer.
	“I want you to watch, scumbag,” Riemann told him. He smiled sickly. “One last treat for you before you fuckin’ die. This is gonna be act two for me.  Act one ended in the bathtub.”
	Tim felt a sinking sensation of despair. Riemann was covered with blood. The killer’s words conveyed that Billy was dead. His poor little boy child was dead.
	Crouching over Sandy Riemann slapped the child awake and dragged her over to the night table lifting her on to it on her back, holding her legs wide apart.
	“Watch me take your little pig-bitch daughter down,” he told Tim.
	The man responded weakly, making a choking sound, his eyes focusing and unfocusing.
	Riemann put his cock to Sandy Winnfried’s virgin pussy.
	She was conscious now but psychologically unresponsive.
	The rope she’d hung from was still tight around her neck.
	Leaning over her, holding her ankles tightly, Riemann began to
shove and squeeze his big, blood-smeared cock head into the little bitch.
	“Noo - ohhgg-godd - no -” Winnfried gasped weakly.
	Sandy moaned softly.
	From across the room Tim could smell the stench of human flesh, blood and shit coming from Riemann.
	“She’s real tight, fuckface. Tighter than you or your son - unhhh - My condolences, by the way...  Couldn’t help it.  He was just too much fun. Hmmm....had to kill the little fuck.  Cut off his balls and his cock too.  Real bloody.  Real messy. Just the way I like it... damn, your little girl’s pussy’s so fuckin tight.  Ahh - this is great, isn’t it?  Family that fucks together dies together...and later Sandy and I are going to see mommy - yes we are.  Mommy’s gonna watch me and my friends do her - just like I did her little brother.  Whatta you think, fuckface? You like that idea? Ahh - damn this little pussy’s nice.”
	Tim Winnfried looked up into the killers sneering face as life began to 
fade from him.
	Julie was still alive somewhere, he realized.  But God only knew what
horrors she’d been forced to live through and what horrors still remained. He
watched the naked stinking blood soaked maniac pound and thrust his hips into
little Sandy as she lay there moaning.  That’s Billy’s blood, my son’s blood and gore, all over him, Tim, realized, suddenly twitching as his heart stopped beating.
	“Aww dear Jeesus - Billy - ugghhh -” he groaned and after a painful
spasm which shot through his left arm and shoulder he went completely still, piss jetting from his cock, his dead eyes taking in the monstrous rape of his girl-child as life faded from him.
	“That’s right fuckface -” Riemann grunted.  He felt the orgasm begin
finally to churn inside him. Taking up the slack rope that hung from her neck he began to strangle the little girl. He slammed into little Sandy Winnfried, tearing
her virgin little pussy open, choking the breath from her, wedging himself deep in her womb to unload his balls in her as he shouted at the dead man on the bed. “Uhhh! Ahh! Yeah! THAT’S RIGHT! - SHE’s MINE NOW...uunnhh - She’s mine - Both of them mine -YOUR WIFE AND YOUR DAUGHTER, FUCKFACE! - AHHH SHITTT! ....BOTH OF THEM ... YOUR SON - ALL OF YOU - MINE! UUUHHNNHHHH!”
	His knees buckled slightly as he shot his cum into Sandy’s little pussy.
	It was a powerful orgasm that shook him for three interminable minutes.
	He slid out of the half-conscious child releasing the choke-rope and sank to his knees, still holding her legs up and apart by the ankles, thick jism oozing off the end of his inflamed cockhead, trickling from Sandy’s tiny violated hole, the pleasure making him weak and dizzy.  
	Sandy’s face was dark red, her lips almost blue but Riemann could see her chest rising and falling. She was still alive.
	Soon he began to recover, taking deep breaths, getting to his feet and letting Sandy’s legs slip down to dangle off the end of the table, his sperm spilling out of her and down the wooden side-panel.
	He had to clean himself up and get to the warehouse before the sun came up.
	Leaving Sandy hog-tied, her legs tied to her neck lightly choking her, making her keep her head up off the floor to breathe, forced to look up into her dead daddy’s face, the little bitch crudely tape-gagged on the tan carpet, Riemann showered in the small bathroom off the master bedroom, and after dressing quickly, he took the garage-door control, went outside, opened the gate, and backed his car, the gray Taurus, in right next to Tim’s white Honda Prelude. 	
	He brought Sandy out, tied up and gagged - carried her squirming and whining weakly in his arms, dumped her unceremoniously into the trunk and slammed the lid shut.
	 Outside, it was still dark but the sky had begun to show the first faint traces of dawn.  The people in the surrounding suburban homes were still sleeping, the windows dark.  The crickets had ended their nocturnal serenades and a stifling humid silence reigned. 
	Before leaving the home Riemann revisited the two sites of crude massacre pausing to admire his handiwork, especially in the main bathroom where Billy’s body lay gored and broken. Yeah. He’d really gone to town on the little fuck, focused all his pent up frustrations on him.  But there was no need now to clean up. That would be taken care of later. And it would be nice to make mom help.
	Briefly, the killer had gone out to the back yard to re-connect the phone wires he’d cut the night before. He wanted to avoid the suspicions of any caller or neighbor who might take notice. An unanswered phone was less apt to stir curiosity than a disconnected line.  
	Then he’d jumped into the Taurus to wheel out of the garage and down toward Route 251, his prize, Julie’s ten year old daughter, struggling for every breath in the stifling darkness of the trunk.

19. Taking Little Ann Down
(Sunday 5 AM) 

(The killing of children is the most extreme, most taboo act.  Especially when it is a male slaughtering a female child.  Especially when the motivation is sexual and predatorial.  Such a demented endeavor motivates only the most perverse bitch-killer, he who has crossed all acceptable lines of morality and behavior.
And for those who have, they inevitably find themselves drawn there, as each
destructive act reaches higher and deeper for true sexual-homicidal pleasure. 
I can imagine no more satisfying pleasure than the slow rape-torture of a young girl leading to the final consummation, the taking of her life.  The high pitched screams of a suffering  pre-teen bitch are like rare vintage wine.  Released to the wind her young life flies like a ghost-dove. Impaled on my cock as she gives up her soul, gives me her blood to drink, is there anything more beautiful than this, more godlike?  Sacrificing a female child for sexual pleasure is the ultimate male victory.  Putting your cock in that little hairless slit and strangling her, beating her, slicing her apart, is truly demonic and cathartic.Certainly the soldier in Bosnia who was arrested after viciously slaughter-raping an eleven year old girl knew it.  He will spend the rest of his life in the brig but he will have known more pleasure in the few hours spent with his victim than most men in their whole lives.  He will have fulfilled the most primal, most bestial of needs.) 

	“Cut me again, daddy, please - Say it - Come on. Say it you little whore.”
	Kirkwood’s voice was tense but under control as he held the scalpel blade over the electric hotplate.
	His cock was deeply embedded in Ann Rowen’s impossibly tight anal passage
he standing behind the suspended twelve year old, his legs wide as he fucked his victim, his balls swaying heavily as his hips surged and rotated.
	Her sweet blonde head hung down between her upraised arms, mouth drooling as she formed the words her killer wanted to hear.
	“ - c-cuhht me a-again - d-da-daddy - mm - pleeeze -”	
	Holding his victim by her shoulder, Kirkwood slowly raised the scalpel off the hotplate and pushed the sharp superheated blade into the beaten child’s right thigh just below the hip.  Ann tensed and quivered as the hot metal cut into her skin.  She moaned and babbled incoherently.
	This was the sixth hot cut the killer had put on her welted thigh and the parallel swollen smouldering scarlet-black wounds which began just above the knee and moved up toward her belly were spilling lines of blood down her bullwhipped leg to her foot. The cuts were thin spanning the child’s thigh from one side to the other - thin, but deep, almost to the muscle.
	First, Kirkwood had stabbed the fishing hooks into her whip-scored titties, three hooks in each of her babypaps, one through the nipple the other two on either side. He’d put a hook through each of her ear-lobes and one through her lower lip then he’d stabbed two hooks to each of her torn bleeding pussy lips and one right through her tiny clit drawing a full-throated mindless shriek from her.
	He had then linked all the metal hooks to a single wire line that he pulled
up to a metal o-ring in the wooden post that was in front of Ann, tugging on the hooks until they were snagged tautly in Ann’s pierced skin.  Bringing the small table he had initally laid her on out in front of her, between the child and the wooden post, he’d placed the acetlyne torch on it, holding a match to the hissing nozzle until the blue flame popped to life. He’d then aimed the hissing flame against the o-ring and the wire so that the heat would pass into the small hooks buried in the little girl.
	The killer had then just stood and watched, studying his victim as the wire began to heat up, twin blue flames reflecting in his pupils as he stroked himself slowly, one hand on his cock the other on his balls. Little Ann Rowen’s scream when he’d driven the hook through her clit splitting open her little shaved cooze with his other hand to do so, betrayed the fact that even after all the brutal torture he’d put her through she was still marvelously full of life.  Obviously the spear-log had not severed any major arteries and the little bitch showed no sign of major blood loss. 
	She had a lot left to give. 
	Kirkwood was delighted, his lips bared in a gleefully malevolent smile.
	Ann Rowen was going to grant him a long sweet ride of sadistic pleasure.
	Leaving the flame to heat up the wire he then plugged in and set up a hotplate on the table in front of his victim next to the acetylene torch and took the surgery scalpel from the drawer cabinet. Standing behind his captive he had
spread her little buttocks apart in his hands and placed his cock up against her
little virgin asshole.  Penetrating her was absoulutely delicious and he worked on her, ass-fucking her slowly for a while before heating up the scalpel.
	He imagined Leanne hanging there on the end of his cock, hurting for him, bleeding from her gashed out pussy, covered with the harsh braided welts of his bullwhip and that’s when he’d thought of making Ann Rowen call him daddy.
	Everytime she said the word he sensed every killing instinct in him being triggered to the max.
	“Again, you little whore. Say it again.”
	“ -ahh- cu-cuhhtt me again - daddiee - uhg - pleeeze?”
	For the child the words the killer was making her say were only pushing her closer to complete psychological devastation.
	She raised her head to cry out as the seventh scalpel cut sliced from the side of her hip all the way to her lower belly.
	In her mind, her real father now stood behind her, plundering her, raping and torturing her.  Something she had done had made him angry.  He had killed Jessie and now she would be next.  But he had told her it would be long and slow. He had told her in the beginning he would put his thing up in her poop-hole and hurt her and kill her, and that was exactly what he was doing and she could not grasp how her daddy could have become so angry. 
	As her head rose slightly she looked through vacant eyes at the flame
playing on the wire strand in front of her.  The hooks daddy had pierced into her
were starting to feel hot.  Tiny drops of blood leaked from each pierce wound.
The one in her lip bled into her mouth and she tasted blood.
	Then, daddy began to cut her without making her ask, slow deliberate
scalpel cuts across her belly, from one side to the other...some across her
shoulderblades...one across her cheek, slicing into her while he fucked her.
	His big thing slid in and out of her aching little poop-hole, coming almost all the way out then pushing back up way deep in her, murderously.
	With each painful cut he put in Ann Rowen, Kirkwood smiled because her
sphincter contracted tightly on his cock.  Increasingly, he  began to make sure to be lodged inside her before drawing the heated-up surgical blade across her smooth skin.  He took his time sliding out then sliding back in a few times, warming up the scalpel, holding the sobbing child steady by one hip, before raising the blade to her again.  After this had gone on for nearly fifteen minutes Ann Rowen began to anticipate the next slicing caress of hot metal.  All Kirkwood had to do was lift the scalpel off the hot plate and already her little anus was squeezing him hard, desperately.
	“Yeahh,” he groaned hoarsely. “That’s it, mmm-”
	Carefully, so as not to mortally injure the child, he placed shallow burn-cuts on her chest, on her whip-scarred, puffy little boobies around her hook-pierced nipples, making her wail despondently with each calculated laceration. He cut her twelve times around each upstretched nipple, concentrating on one side first, placing three or four smoky gashes on one tit before moving to the other.
	The beaten, traumatized youth was sweating, repetitively moaning, her blonde hair in twisted strands down over her sweet suffering face. The sensation of the now blazing hooks in her nipples and lip and on her tiny clit was clearly unbearable.  The cuts of the killer’s burning blade were taking her to the edge of tolerance, almost but not quite over the edge of consciousness.
	“Whyyyy, daddiiee?” she keened as Kirkwood continued to stuff her
with steady upthrusts and to disfigure and mutilate the front of her body
with the red-hot scalpel.
	“Why? Because you’re a little bitch, that’s why.”
	“Aoowwhh! No, daddy, no! awwhh! I’m a good girl - you said I was good - you told me I w-was g-ggi - iihhhhh!”
	“You’re a worthless bitch. You’ve always been a worthless bitch. You think because you’re so cute you deserve all the good shit in life? Huh? Is that what you think, you little twat?”
	“No! Oww! AAoowww! I hu-huhhrttt daddieee...”
	“Yeah, you hurt, you little cunt. And you’re gonna hurt a lot worse before I’m done with you.”
	“W-why did you kill - J-Jessie? We - we b-both love you, d-daddy - Ooowwhh!”
	“You love me? Huh? You love me?”
	The killer leaned over the child’s upstrung arm to stare insanely into her
defeated eyes. That word, spoken by the suffering child, had released his deepest blood-lust.
	Her hooked lower lip was trembling, pierce-hooked ears bleeding and as she looked at the man that was torturing her she suddenly realized he was not
her real father.
	Her eyes narrowed and her brows arched as she wailed in horror.
	“Jessie! Jessieeeee!” she yelled, calling out to her dead sister as her killer smiled and resumed the slow methodical punishment with the hot scalpel.
	Leaning back Kirkwood drew a long cut down her back, on her left side
parallel to her spine, beginning at her shoulder and moving down slowly to her slender waist. Then he cut a diagonal line from her right shoulder
to the middle of that cut and a diagonal from her right buttock up to the
same point of intersection so that the letter ‘K’, his mark, was etched indelibly
on Ann Rowen’s bullwhip-welted back, a bloody blackened smouldering dripping ‘K’ that established complete ownership of the little cunt by her sadistic tormentor. 
	She began whining and squirming as he drew the ‘K’ on her and by the time he finished she was hysterical, sobbing, her arms yanking on the suspension
ropes, her legs kicking in mid air.
	He began to stab the point of the hot scalpel into the babbling child’s back and asscheeks, just deep enough to penetrate her skin, to leave tiny wounds in
her that bled, droplets that joined the trickling from the sharper wound of the ‘K’ cut and moved down her thighs.
	He reached down to grab her ankles and lift her feet to stab her footsoles and toes, to cut her heels and calves.
	Suddenly he was amused by the idea of Ann and Jessie’s parents being witnesses to his and Kessler’s treatment of their beautiful young daughters.  What would they say? How would they react? He would have enjoyed having both of them bound to the wooden posts across the room watching him do the little pig.
He could only imagine what they would have felt upon seeing Kessler cut their
oldest daughter to pieces with his knife, or by watching him fuck the dead teenage victim then rape Ann in the refrigerated chamber.  He could imagine them pleading for the life of their baby, down on their knees, willing to trade their lives for hers.
	Regrettably Kirkwood did not even know what the Rowens looked like.  Kessler had kidnapped the girls from a park on the suburban outskirts of Whitehall and though their disappearance had been on the news in Seabrook no picture or video of the parents had yet been shown, only smiling photos of Jessie and Ann.
	The little bitch he was now repeatedly scoring with a hot surgeon’s scalpel had been shown hugging a teddy bear and sitting on the steps of a clean
and unpretentious suburban home.  Her older sister was shown straddling
a bike near some tennis courts.
	Kirkwood smiled holding Ann’s little foot up by the ankle as he stabbed the tip of the blade deep into each toe and with each gasping shriek of his victim he
imagined the horror-wide eyes of her mother and father. 
	Her blood trickled down on to his fingers as they gripped her skinny limb. 
	Mr.& Mrs. Rowen would be saving some serious money on groceries and Christmas presents from now on, Kirkwood thought cynically.  He savored the sadistic power of causing people he didn’t know such unspeakable grief.  Their psychological suffering was a spiritual mirror of the physical anguish the blonde blue-eyed sisters Jessie and Ann had undergone at the hands of the killers.
	Such girls were supposed to grow and flourish, surrounded by loving
fawning relatives and friends.  They were supposed to appear in robe and caps
at graduation smiling from pictures that would grace the living room walls.
They were supposed to bring boyfriends home and talk endlessly on the phone
and chatter for hours about silly things with their friends and take endless trips to the mall. They were supposed to play with kittens and wonder about marrying the right man someday or  about going to college.
	Now, none of those things would ever happen.  
	Kirkwood was glad to be part of the reason for that.
	He lifted up little Ann’s other foot to cut and pierce and wound it.
	Little sluts deserved suffering and cruelty not happiness and respect.
	They deserved to hurt and bleed, to be used and fucked like cheap whores.
	The Hillside Stranglers in L.A. had known that and acted on it.
	With similar inhumanity, he, Bill Kirkwood and Mike Kessler had shown these two little Rowen cunts, Jessie and Ann, just what they deserved, had put them in their place, had robbed their parents of them and their happiness, and those facts were a source of elation for Kirkwood.
	He brought the scalpel blade up to his lips when it had sufficiently cooled to taste Ann Rowen on it.
	Metallic and warm on his tongue it inspired him now to greater cruelty.
	Ann Rowen tasted of wild rose buds cut from the vine.
	He thought of Ann Rowen sitting on the step of her house with the soft teddy bear in her gentle blonde-down covered arms.
	He slid slowly out of her, rubbed his shit-smeared prick on her gashed out pussy hole then came around to stand in front of the weeping child.
	Her right thigh was marked by the seven deep dark gashcuts of the scalpel but the left thigh was scored only by the criss-cross bruising bullwhip welts.
	It was not a symmetrical effect and it needed to be remedied.
	Kirkwood heated the scalpel on the hot plate and watched his little dangling slaughter-slave cry fitfully and hang her head.
	The metal hooks drew on her ears and lip and on her little titties with
each movement she made.
	Impulsively he pulled her head up by her hair. He looked at her hatefully, his eyes blazing with sick desire and he hocked and spit on her face.
	He shut the acetylene torch off and pulling on some thick leather gloves that he took from the drawer cabinet he began to yank on the wire that held
the heated metal hooks embedded in Ann Rowen.
	She began to screech and kick as he tugged hard and then she yowled piercingly as he gave a fierce pull and ripped all the hooks out of her simultaneously.
	Bits of skin and blood flew off the young victim, one nipple gouged out, her lip and ears and clit torn and spilling blood.
	Kirkwood’s yellowish phlegm dripped off her bruised cheek as she
wailed plaintively.
	She watched her killer go to the crank on the wall and begin to lower her, felt herself sagging downward, sliding to her aching swollen knees in the puddle of blood piss and shit on the floor beneath her.
	“D-dah - dah - daddiee -” she groaned, her lost eyes searching for his.
	He locked the crank lever leaving her hanging still by her arms in a kneeling position and he strode slowly back toward her.
	“Fucking cunt,” he snarled. “Daddy’s out for blood.”  
	And he bent down to stab the scalpel into her left thigh making her head snap backward in a shrill squeal of pain.
	He stabbed the child’s meaty leg again and again, a dozen times, with the
hot scalpel until that leg bled and smouldered like the other one then he pushed the table aside and stood in front of little Ann Rowen lifting his booming cock
to her gashed beaten face, to her torn lips.
	“Suck me,” he growled. “Suck daddy’s cock now, whore. Show me how much you love me.”
	Crying and babbling the little girl did as she was told licking at Kirkwood’s swollen glans, at his piss slit, wrapping her little mouth around his pumped-up
shaft. 
	He took her head in both hands, forcing his fingers in between her cheeks and arms and around her slender neck to choke her as he pushed his hot
erection into her moist little mouth.
	He let her arouse him, her warm spit all over his dick.  He made her lick his balls until they swelled hotly.  He stuffed himself down her little throat choking her and then when he was on the edge of cumming he stepped back.
	This had gone on long enough.
	It was time to kill her.
	The sword hung from a metal hook on the wall on the other side of the room.
	It was an old military broadsword Kessler had bought from some antique dealer up the coast.
	The men had taken care to sharpen stainless steel edge to perfection.
	Kirkwood took it in his leather-gloved hand to lift it off the wall hook.
	It felt perfectly balanced in his grip as he walked back to his kneeling victim.
	He placed the sword on the table beside her and reached out to untie her
wrists from the suspension ropes.
	Her hands were cold and colorless.
	She started to slip down to the floor but he made her stay on her knees.
	“Stay up for me,” he whispered fiercely. “Stay on your knees for your daddy.”
	The girl moaned groggily as he took two strands of wire from the
drawer cabinet and bound her wrists to her thighs.  Then taking her shoulder-length blonde mane in his hand he drew it up and twisted it into a swirling
pony tail on top of her head which he tied off to one of the dangling ropes that had held her wrists above her.  
	He went to the wall and cranked the suspension rope upward slightly so that his moaning captive now knelt, arms against her sides, her pretty head and bruised face yanked upright by her hair.
	Kirkwood picked up the sword from the table.	
	He took a stance behind the child.
	His eyes gleamed. 
	He bit his lip and raised the sharp steel weapon.
	“Tell me you love me,” he said softly.
	The child was sobbing softly, quivering, banking slightly from side to side but held upright by the clump of twisting tangled hair.  Her exposed ears bled
on her shoulders. Her eyes stared glassily at the floor in front of her.
	“ - I - luh-luhv you - ghm -”
	She choked up, her pretty eyes closing, her head pulling against the rope, blood pouring from her ripped tongue, as she swooned dizzily.
	“ -da - daddy -”
	Kirkwood moaned softly, smiled, drew back.
	He took aim on the ‘K’ he had cut across her spine.
	Little cunt had called him daddy again.  It made him think again of Leanne ... he gripped the sword hard in his leather-gloved fist.
	Sweet little Leanne sitting on his lap in her red bikini, still wet from the pool.
	The sword whistled sharply through the air as he swung it down across his kneeling victim.
	It whanged into her with a squishy thud and she let out a yelp. It sounded like a puppy being run over by a car.
	He yanked the blade out of her, dislodging it from flesh and bone.
	The deep gash had torn through the top part of the ‘K’ right across both her shoulderblades and her spinal column making her twitch and kick her
blood-gouged feet on the floor.  Blood fairly spurted from her as he swung again and laid another slice right across both of her welted asscheeks sinking his
blade deep into the screaming virgin female.
	He pulled the weapon from her and leaned down slightly stepping closer.
	Taking careful aim, he swung the killing sword down hard and buried the
blood-streaked steel into the heels of her small kicking feet, both heels, the
blade right to the talus bones, shattering, snapping one ankle as it came down
on her with a crushing thump.
	The child’s squeals and shrieks were incredibly high-pitched and almost piglike.  They filled the large killing room.
	Outside, down the hallway, the two women bound by steel manacles to the wall of the holding cell heard Ann Rowen clearly. They looked at each other, speechless, sharing the terror and expectation of what those frenetic screams meant.
	In the killing room, Kirkwood had to step on his child victim’s pierced toes to hold her gashed, broken feet against the floor and dislodge the sword from her. She kicked out feebly as the blade came loose. He then stepped back for the coup-de-grace.
	He stroked his cock rhythmically as he spread his legs and took aim for the final stroke.
	Ann Rowen had a sleek long neck, a lot like his own daughter’s, gracefully exposed now as she dangled from the overhead rope by her tangled blonde mane.
	The killer knew he could cut the child’s head clean off if he swung hard enough and hit her just right.  He balanced himself on the balls of his feet, shifted his weight from right to left a couple of times, and raised the sword.
	“Filthy - stinking - little - bitch -” he muttered softly then:
	“DIE!”
	 and he swung the sword hard.
	Silvery steel flashed and flew in a semi-circle and struck.
	The sharp blade sliced into Ann Rowen. It whanged into her neck bone severing it in half and slicing right through, blood spattering the wooden post and the floor in front of her.
	The child made a surprised choked sound, her bright blue eyes wide and for a moment nothing happened.
	She knelt there stiffly, blood pulsing and flowering from a ring around her little neck.  One torn foot jerked spastically.  Both hands, trapped against her
sides, opened, fingers fully extended.
	Kirkwood looked on as the arc of his sword-swing ended. He stood there frozen, still in attack stance.
	And then, Ann twitched and spasmed, her legs kicked and her headless body sprang free and toppled sideways to the ground.  Blood spurted from the hideous neck wound, her heart still pumping and blood dripped from the severed head which hung from the rope and dangled pendulously from side to side.
	“Yessss!” Kirkwood shouted victoriously.
	Stroking himself vigorously he came around to stand in front of the decapitated female.
	Her eyes, incredibly were still moving, tear-filled trailing up to look at her killer-daddy whom she loved deeply as he raised his cock to her open lips.  On the floor, her headless body twitched and flailed.
	Now pumping himself hard Kirkwood imagined Mr. and Mrs. Rowen looking on as his hot cum built up in his balls, needing to erupt.
	How could you do this - dear God - thissss -
	 TO A CHILD?
	Then with a rough shout he orgasmed.
	A thick wad of cum smacked into Ann’s open eye, another on her nose and forehead.
	Kirkwood realized when she didn’t even blink that death had already taken her and he smiled as he pumped hot squirts of semen into her parted lips.
	He pushed his prick into Ann Rowen’s dead mouth, fucking the small blonde head, holding it in his hands and it took almost no time for him to reach full erection again.
	Kicking her lifeless but still warm body on its back he then slid down to his knees to fuck the wounded, mutilated, headless corpse of the little girl.
	He fucked her blown out pussy and her raped asshole, fucked the carcass violently until he came again, remembering her cries of pain, her pleading moans, she had called him daddy and told him she loved him , he had cut her to pieces in a fury of murderous sadistic loathing.  He grunted now, pumping his cum deep into her dead bowels.
	He knew this little bitch would not end up in the freezer like some of the other kills.  
	This one was going right into the ground.
	Outside, down the hall he could hear the cries and protests of women in the holding cell and mean snarling male voices. Kessler and Robeson had probably already started in on the two bitches.
	The child had been a tasteful prelude.
	Now it was time to take on the adult females.
	The slaughter orgy was coming to a thrilling climax.

20. Karyn and Darla
(Monday 5:30 AM)

(The center of sweetest oblivion is a woman’s seductive eyes when she wants finally to be taken. She invites us to use her, to spend her, to do whatever it takes for the final release.  Sweeter still is the taking of what is not given, to see in her eyes that things have gone too far, that the universe is off balance, out of kilter and that pleasure may not come if she does not give the ultimate prize: her life.
Pushed to this limit, broken and defeated, still she will yield because it is all she
knows. Strong and able to bear pain she is ours to use, ours to defeat, ours to
empty ourselves in. She is our whore and her sacrificial blood must be drawn.)

	Robeson and Kessler entered the holding cell where the two females waited.
	The shrill cries of the little girl Ann, the younger of the Rowen sisters were resonating through the warehouse. The killers knew that whatever Kirkwood was doing to the little bitch was undoubtedly deliciously extreme and, without doubt, savagely pleasurable. The horrific sounds only served to increase their sadistic excitement as they now armed themselves while their terrified captives looked on.
	Kessler strapped on the black leather cock-sheath.
	Sharp, quarter-inch steel studs bristled on its surface.
	Such spikes should grow on a man’s penis, he mused.  The penis should be a killing tool.  (Just like the sharpened log he and Kirkwood had devised, the one little Ann Rowen had just been riding in the ‘experimental’ room.)  
	Mike Kessler’s cock was  a killing tool when he wore the barbed sheath, his hard meat hot and pulsating inside the tight leather, and he had used it as such on many occasions.
	He strapped it on now, buckled the leather belt tight, and showed it to his victims, paraded before the two nude disheveled beaten women clamp-cuffed to the wall of the holding cell.  They cried weakly and pleaded with him.  He enjoyed that.
	He had enjoyed capturing these two cunts days before and he was enjoying their terror, their horror and the prospect of their slow mutilation and death.
	Robeson looked on, a short multi-tongued lash dangling from his hand.
	He too wore a barbed sheath strapped to a leather harness around his waist.
	On the tip of each leather lash tongue of Robeson’s weapon a small ball of hard gray lead an inch long and about a half inch in diameter was secured, ten deadly nuggets of slinging, stinging viciousness that could tear a female victim’s tender flesh to ribbons.
	Kessler stood before the two babbling women in the holding cell.  The redhead faced the wall, the blonde was backed up against it.
	They had been chained on their feet in different positions for nearly a week and during their captivity they’d been released from their shackles and forced down on hands and knees only briefly, a couple of times a day, to eat dogfood and water from dirty plastic bowls. The only other times they’d been allowed freedom from the chains and their standing bondage was for Kessler’s depraved entertainment and under his strict control and supervision.
	Over the past few days they had pissed and shit all over themselves and on the floor. Their fashionable expensive clothes, which they’d been wearing when they were captured, had been torn from them one piece at a time and eventually tossed into the furnace; their once prissily-styled manes were tangled and scraggly.  The bitches were in shambles.
	Just a short week before they had been beautiful and confident professionals, discussing a real estate deal over lunch at the restaurant in downtown Whitehall.
	Kessler had watched them from his van across the street. 
	He’d been stalking Karyn Waters for some time.  He’d seen her picture on an empty desk at the Northtowne real estate office when he’d first talked to Jeb Thompson about the Vanner warehouse deal, a year earlier and he’d taken one of her business cards without Jeb knowing about it. Months later, Bill Kirkwood had helped him get more information on the real estate woman.
	The pretty redhead lived with her wealthy parents just outside Whitehall and though she had no real need to earn a living, she sold upscale properties for Northtowne Real Estate.  Kessler figured she worked just to do something, to interrupt the boredom of her complacent, leisurely existence.
	It had been Kessler’s intention to take her alone, to disable her vehicle on one of the quiet roads outside town on one of her field trips and kidnap the slut.  	But then he’d gotten lucky.  
	The day Kessler had chosen to take down the Northtowne real estate saleswoman, two days before the taking of Julie Winnfried,  Darla Bessinger, one of Karyn’s clients, was scheduled to go with Karyn to see a house on Tremont Road, an exclusive sparsely-populated area ten miles out of town, off Lardson Avenue.
	It was a beautiful late summer day and the sight of both expensively dressed
women walking up the sidewalk had made Kessler’s mouth water.  He’d watched them saunter gracefully to the Lexus, their high-heel pumps clacking on the pavement, their female voices floating in the breeze as they laughed about something one or the other had said. Their mouths glistened with colorful lipstick and he’d watched their shoulder-length manes and their short skirts fluttering as they moved so confident, so full of life.  He’d guessed Darla, a petite honey blonde, to be about twenty five; Karyn, as he’d already learned, was twenty seven.  
	Darla, a stunning blonde, had full round breasts, full D cups, the killer estimated, that bounced gently under her pink v-necked blouse as she walked.  The top buttons of the silk garment were undone revealing formidable cleavage.  Karyn Waters on the other hand, wore a dark blue business suit with a white blouse and tailored jacket.  She was not as top-heavy as her client, but she was well endowed.  She had a long slender neck and a sexy mouth and she’d chosen a most attractive shade of dark red lipstick that complimented the dark burgundy shade of her hair.  
	Kessler had felt himself growing hard at the prospect of both women nude and at his mercy in the Vanner warehouse, black leather cuffs on their wrists and ankles, slave collars around their throats. Black would make a such a delightfully sharp contrast against the redhead’s alabaster-toned skin. Then he thought of how both women would look chained to the wall in the holding cell in the dark gloomy
glow of the bare lightbulbs, all beaten and disheveled.
	Two cunts for the price of one, Kessler thought - that was when he’d decided to go for it.
	He knew then he and the others would have to wear both females down to nothing, to destroy them utterly.  Their slaughter, along with Julie’s, would be the climax of the killing orgy.
	The pump-action Remington shotgun had rested on the seat next to him.
	Nothing excited Kessler more than the hunt, the pursuit of victims that were oblivious to his macabre murderous intentions.
	He’d followed his two delectable targets as they’d driven into the Gateland Inn Restaurant parking lot and waited, watched a waiter lead them to a table by a window, watched them sit down to look at the menus, chattering endlessly.  Fifteen minutes later he had stepped out of his van, walked calmly up to the Darla’s SUV.  When he’d confirmed no one was around he’d duct-taped the explosive cylinder under the vehicle, behind the passenger side rear wheel, down near the hub, calmly returning to his van when he was finished to wait for the two women to leave the expensive eatery. 
	After following them out of town, when they were out on a lonely stretch of road that cut through a wooded area, he’d set off the explosive with the small remote radio control unit blowing the rear passenger side tire completely off the Lexus.
	The SUV had tilted, rocked and skidded off the road to slam through a patch of shrubs and into an oak tree, its front-end bumper crushed, the hood folding back like a battered accordeon, the airbags deploying as the two women screamed. 	
	Quickly Kessler had pulled his van up behind the disabled Lexus.
	While they were still shaken and disoriented, blonde big-titted Darla with a cut on her forehead that bled down on her expensive pink blouse, Karyn draped over the deflated airbag on the steering wheel and groaning, Kessler moved in.  The women would not be given time to gather their wits or use their cel phones to call for help. Unbuckling the seatbelts, Kessler dragged his disconcerted victims out of the car at shotgun point forcing them to climb and stumble into his vehicle where in less than three minutes he had roped them together, sitting back to back on the floor between the front and back seats, gagged with their own panties, hard wraps of duct tape wound around their open mouths, their shock-filled eyes teary, mascara smearing their faces.  He’d pulled Karyn’s jacket down off her shoulders and ripped her blouse back away from her red lacy brassiere.  Then he’d popped Darla’s blouse open too, just to get a good look at her big juicy jugs, cupped in expensive black satin. He’d pawed and squeezed both females, taunting them, calling them names.
	Right from the beginning he’d told them he was going to kill them.
	There would be no mincing of words with these two wealthy sluts, no allowing for the surprise and trauma of the car accident they’d just been in.
	He’d told them to expect the worst kind of torture imaginable because it
was what rich, selfish cunts like them deserved.
	And after binding them together tightly, making sure there was absolutely no give in the ropes, and driving back to the Vanner warehouse he’d untied their legs and again at gunpoint he’d walked them into the building and down the stairs into the cellar holding cell where he’d secured them spreadeagled to the wall.
	Incredibly, he’d actually put the shotgun down while he’d chained Karyn up. 		 	Darla had just stood there submissively, hands at her side, blouse hanging open, eyes on the floor, duct-tape-gagged, awaiting her turn.
	Kessler was always amazed by how perfectly females succumbed to the status of submissive helpless victims.
	When he’d raped the other occupant of the holding cells in front of them, the eight year old oriental girl he would soon snuff, Lily Kan, both females chained with their backs to the wall and forced to watch, he’d supremely enjoyed their terror, their disbelief, as he’d slowly crammed his erect prick up the squirming child’s tight pussy-bud and slam-banged his cock brutally in and out of her, ramming her against the hard metal bars of the cell, little arms strung up above with ropes her head, the little slope-eyed piglet screeching.
	If he was capable of that, they asked themselves, was there anything he was not  capable of?
	Provoking such questions and suppositions in the minds of his female victims was, of course, precisely what Kessler intended.
	Occasionally, two or three times each day during their captivity, he’d payed his wealthy captives a visit, teasing them, playing with them, telling them that he might let them go if they paid him or if they fucked him.
	He’d left them chained up but he’d ungagged them and let them talk and plead and cry, amusing himself with their suffering.
	The suffering of women was so incredibly appealing, their words, their
emotion-filled looks, their trapped bodies. 
	Women were so charmingly dramatic.
	Women were fucking theatrical.
	That was how he’d discovered that Darla was buying the house on Tremont road and that Karyn was taking her there the day of the kidnapping, the day he’d blown them off the road.  Unfortunate coincidence for Ms. Bessinger, but a real boon for the heartless killer.
	He’d stood before them slowly masturbating as they pleaded for their lives and for the child’s life, offering him thousands of dollars if he would only let them all go.
	Then he’d just smiled and thrust the big rubber ball-gags back in their mouths and the duct tape around their heads.
	“I don’t need your fucking money,” he’d told them bluntly.
	Then he’d made them watch as he viciously raped the little Asian girl again, this time suspending her by her ankles to the cell bars, legs wide open, to stuff his cock brutally up her tiny little rectum, once more slamming her against the steel bars, punching her ribs while he fucked her, finally reaching down to grab her head and shoot off on her suffering little face, in her cute little mouth and on her shiny hair.  He’d then released her and shoved her into the adjoining cell where the child had huddled into a corner sobbing softly in the shadows wiping his cum off her
cheeks with her dirty little fingers.
	If he can do that ....the women thought, to a child  - What will he do with us?
	The next day, after making Karyn and Darla wait through an endless night of terrified anticipation, he had ungagged them again to let them beg.  He noted that
their lips were parched and dry with thirst.
	“Maybe if you get me off I’ll let you go,” he’d proposed after listening to them whimpering and whining, pleading endlessly for themselves and for Lily Kan.
	By then both women were starting to look frazzled and fatigued by their difficult bondage. Their faces were flushed and marked by the duct tape, which he kept ripping off and sticking back on them, their jaws aching from being forced wide by the big ball gags.  Their wrists and ankles were chafed by the steel cuffs that held them crucified and spread-legged to the cold warehouse wall.  In that awkward position they were unable to sleep.  When they did become drowsy and their bodies sagged their arms and thighs would cramp painfully forbidding them rest of any kind.
	To further entertain himself Kessler had, on the third day, released Darla from the wall and made her kneel in her own piss, her pantyhose torn, one shoe gone.
	Clutching her by her golden hair he’d yanked the petite woman’s pretty head backward.  The cut on her forehead from the accident was now just a streak of scabbed dry blood. Kessler had ordered her to keep her hands behind her as he’d slowly traced her lips with his index finger. 
	“Nice mouth, whore,” he’d snarled softly.
	Her eyes had trailed up to his to find him smiling sickly down on her. Then without warning he’d slapped her a few times before feeding her his cock.  At first she was unwilling and uncooperative but when he told her he would cut her tongue out if she didn’t do better and slapped her some more she got right down to it.
	After a while she had begun to take him greedily, eagerly, hoping to save herself by showing him how well she could please him.
	It was a game he’d played many times before.
	He enjoyed having  women on their knees, demeaned and humiliated before him, outdoing themselves for his orgasm.
	He’d looked over at Karyn while Darla’s head bobbed back and forth
on his prick, the lovely blonde’s eyes half closed, drool running down her chin, her heavy tits bouncing jauntily.
	“She’s not bad,” he’d told Karyn. “Not bad at all.”
	“Maybe I’ll let her go and leave you here.”
	The Asian girl, Lily,  had huddled in the corner of her cell watching Kessler face-fuck the kneeling blonde, pulling her knees up to her chin whimpering, her eyes glimmering with fresh tears.
	Karyn had sobbingly pleaded with him to be allowed to join Darla in a chance at pleasing him, at satisfying him, and after a few minutes he released the redhead from the wall as well and placed her on her knees, both women captives working him desperately like cheap fifty dollar hookers while the child in the adjoining cell looked on.  He’d made one lick his balls, crouching down between his  strong spread legs while he took the other’s head in his hands and slid his shaft all the way down her throat,  choking and slapping her.  He’d made them switch positions.  He’d made both of them sit on the floor in their own waste, shit and piss soaking and smearing their thighs and their skirts, to lick his asshole, to bend down and kiss and lick his dirty feet, to lick his legs.  He’d even made them lick their own shit
and piss up off the floor thoroughly enjoying their absolute humiliation and surrender.
	There was no need for a weapon to intimidate them any longer.
	Even though they were not bound Kessler knew they would make no attempt to flee.
	They were completely under his power.
	Broken.
	Just like women - literally dying to please - eager to obey.
	When he’d finished with them, never indulging the pleasure of the orgasms that they nearly provoked, he’d chained them again to the wall, ramming the ball gags back in their mouths, or the duct tape, to leave them there in the dingy half-lit holding cell in the stinking tatters of their torn garments unable to reach out to the raped child on the other side of the bars.
	By the fourth day he’d ripped off what was left of their clothing and cut away their bras and frilly panties with his knife as they hung spreadeagled by the cuffs facing the wall. 
	He’d tossed their torn stinking clothes into the furnace outside the holding cell and he’d hosed the two screaming bitches down with a high-pressure nozzle, the icy water spraying against their bound naked bodies, bouncing off their plump butts, thudding into their sloping backs, as they strained against the chains went up on their toes and wailed.  The water had washed away their excrement and urine into a drainhole. Small beads of moisture speckled the walls and the naked female bodies. Their hair hung over their faces and shoulders soaked and tangled.
	He’d then turned the hose on the little Asian captive, making her squeal and shrink back into her dark corner of the cell in her customary fetal position.
	When the killer had finished hosing the captives down, he’d released Darla and Karyn from the wall. He’d cuffed the women’s wrists behind them and ordered them to lay down on the wet floor, curled up on their sides to eat each other’s pussies while he stood over them, single-tail lash in hand, telling them that if they could convince him of their seriousness in pleasing each other, even under the punishing cuts, he would surely let them all go in a matter of hours.
	He’d whipped them severely with the single-tail lash as they moaned and cried, eagerly pushed their faces into each other’s twats, their bodies gleaming wetly in the light of the single overhead bulb, their pretty legs kicking or cocked back as the lash fell.
	It was slow unpredictable punishment,  his lash coming every few minutes without warning, his eyes devouring the writhing wet bodies on the floor of the cell as he painted female flesh with hot searing well-placed scarlet lines.
	He let them make love to each other under the vicious bite of his single-tail, the same whip he’d used on Julie the first time, enjoying their panting breathless eagerness, the way their round hips shone in the gloom as they thrust their cunts into each other’s face.
	From the shadows in the other cell Lily Kan had looked on, her doll-like fingers gripping the cold metal bars of the cell, her hair falling over her dark eyes in dirty strands her innocent mind overwhelmed by the atrocious sexual violence she was witnessing.
	“Do it nice,” Kessler grunted hoarsely at the women on the floor, his eyes gleaming hungrily. “Do it nice for me. Maybe I’ll let you live.  Maybe you’ll walk out of here in one piece.”
	It didn’t take long to turn women into what they really were underneath.
	Whores.
	Stinking, worthless, mindless, whores.
	Earlier, when Kessler had walked Julie to the refrigerated chamber, he’d taken her through the cell room. The women had seen - as he’d purposefully intended them to see - the glazed blown-out look in Julie’s eyes - her mindless submissive obedience.  They’d hung, manacled to the wall, as Julie was led past them and through the door on a leash behind Kessler. 
	Now, as they clasped their arms around each other’s waists to lap at each other’s swollen cuntmouths, neither of the two captives wanted to think that they too might be turned into zombie-like slaves, to lose their sense of self, their humanity - that they might become nothing but blank-eyed puppets at Kessler’s hands. 
	Before either of the whipped females could achieve orgasm, just as their desperate movements and vocalizations indicated that they were but seconds away from release, Kessler had kicked them apart and made them lie side by side.  He’d crouched over them, legs apart bearing down on them to rub his asshole on their sobbing faces. rocking from left to right on the balls of his feet to allow each female an opportunity to please him.
  	He’d rubbed his cock in their teary eyes and on their soft lips.
	“Lick me,” he growled as he squeezed his big balls against soft faceflesh going from redhead to blonde, back and forth. “Make me hard.”
	They’d obeyed silently, helplessly, lapping at his hot genitals, moaning, their hands still cuffed behind their backs, their bodies burning from his whip.
	When the two captives had sufficiently excited him he’d dragged them up on their feet and chained them again to the wall.  Then he’d turned to the oriental 
child. 
	He’d hung Lily up on the cell bars and raped her savagely, his strong body charged up with animalistic lust provoked by the punishment of Darla and Karyn.
	By then the two ravaged women no longer pleaded with him but just watched through defeated eyes as he violated his mewling child victim knowing
that their submission had contributed to his vicious arousal.
	They had demeaned themselves to him for nothing and they knew it.
	Kessler came inside Lily Kan, pumping a hot load into her deflowered pussy, staring across the room at Darla and Karyn as he orgasmed, looking right into their eyes defiantly, a savage sneer on his face.  After he was gone, leaving the little girl bruised, sobbing and leaking cum from her bleeding slit, the two women had tried to comfort the suspended mind-blown victim.  But they had been unable to comprehend her when she’d finally voiced her anguish in her own language and this only heightened their sense of helplessness and frustration. It was impossible for them to reach out and release the weeping writhing child from the ropes that held her against the metal bars.  Lily’s suffering brought out their deepest maternal instincts and their inability to assist her only made them feel more vulnerable, more defeated, more victimized.
	Nearly an hour later, the killer had come back with a young naked woman in red high-heels whom he introduced as ‘a stinking stripper cunt’, and he’d made all the captives except for the child kneel on the low wooden table, taking his time to rape all three of them slowly and cruelly, destroying them with his cock and with his words, revealing his murderous intentions as he fucked each victim, hilting his stone-hard manmeat in them, making the child use her mouth and tongue on his massive genitals as he raped and reamed the adult women.  
	When he’d finished with them, emptying his balls all over the kneeling women’s faces, he’d secured Darla and Karyn again to the wall, and ushered the new arrival, who would later tell them her name - Mara - a whispered sob in the dark cell - into the adjacent cell leaving the Asian girl bound to the cell bars on her knees by her neck. 
	Shortly afterwards, he’d come to take Lily away. He told the captive women that he was going to kill the child, to slit her throat and fuck the bleeding wound, and enjoy it, and that soon it would be their turn.
	He’d known that from the cell the women would be able to hear the little gook’s screams as well as the screams of the other victims in the warehouse over the next hours and that their terror would only increase as the time dragged on.
	Eventually, Mara too was taken away. 
	Karyn and Darla had wept when the young stripper’s screams had echoed through the halls of the warehouse cellar. It was clear to them that they too would soon be facing terrible pain and possibly death. They had, by then, given up all hope of escape or long-range survival.
	In the long hours that followed the two women had wept, teetered drowsily, hung limply from their chains.  Kessler had not gagged them again after Mara was taken away.  Unable to touch each other or reach out, they could at least now speak, their voices, whispering, quavering with terror, hopeless and lost.
	“This is my fault,” Karyn had told her companion.
	Kessler had chained the redhead so that she faced the wall.  Darla was chained with her back to it - opposing crucified manifestations of female captivity. 
	“How can you say that?” the blonde had asked looking over at the other woman compassionately.  Karyn’s head hung abjectly, her forehead against the cold stone. Slow tears were trickling down her smudged cheeks and down off her trembling chin.
	After the long periods of bondage and isolation, after being hosed down like animals in a cage and forced to perform oral sex under the killer’s whip, and after having to deal with the unavoidable reality of what had befallen the two other female victims who’d shared their captivity, the two women, who days before barely knew each other, now shared a deep intimacy.
	“I - I shouldn’t have taken you out to see that property,” Karyn moaned.  “We could have gone to the office first. We could have stayed in the restaurant.”
	“You can’t blame yourself for that.”
	“Maybe if we’d stayed just ten minutes more, just ten minutes more at the restaurant -”
	“No, Karyn. This would have happened anyway.  This animal would have gotten you or me or both of us sooner or later.”
	“I don’t know - oh God, I don’t know - 
	“I do know. Don’t you see? He planned all of this. All of it. He’s done it before. Lots of times. Look at this place.”
	Karyn looked up at the stone walls and at the pipes running across the grimy ceiling.
	“Who is   he?” she groaned. “Where has he brought us?”
	Darla choked back her own tears.  A deep sense of dread overwhelmed her.  
	“He’s a killer,” she whispered. “Don’t you see?  He - he kills women and he likes it and...and he’s not alone.  You’ve heard them - the other men’s voices - up there...”
	Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling.
	“I’ve heard them,” Karyn replied.
	“This is a killing place,” Darla added softly.
	The words hung in the gloom of the holding cell.
	“I hated having him in my mouth,” Darla sobbed suddenly looking away. Her big luscious breasts jiggled as she did so.  She was nearer to the overhead bulb than Karyn and the yellowish light exposed the sharp red welt-lines Kessler’s whip had left on her flanks. One long cut streaked across the dimpled concave dip of her belly button, another across the top of her heaving boobs. Several criss-crossed her hips and buttocks and thighs, Kessler’s favored targets.
	After a moment Karyn asked:
	“You think he - if we... - you think - what he said -”
	“He’s not going to let us go, Karyn,” Darla groaned her anguished face turning back to her companion. “Ever.”
	“Don’t you get it? No matter what - he’ll never let us go.”
	“Maybe when he - if we get him off - if we -”
	“You saw what he did with that little girl - and with Mara -”
	Darla looked down.  Karyn stopped talking for a while then said:
	“It was a perfect house.”
	Darla stared at her, puzzled.
	“The house on Tremont, I meant,” Karyn explained. “The house I was taking you to see.”
	A sad smile drifted across the blonde’s pretty mouth.
	She nodded.
	“Yes,” she replied. “...the house. I’d forgotten.”
	“There was over an acre of land behind it - a glass-encased rear porch - and the woods. It had the most beautiful old-fashioned kitchen - a fireplace in the living room and in the master bedroom upstairs -”
	“I like fireplaces...”
	Karyn’s chains clicked metalically as she shifted her weight from one bare aching foot to the other.
	“...making love in front of a fireplace.”
	Darla’s lip quivered.
	“Are you - have you been -?”
	“Married?” Karyn finished. “Yeah. He left me two years ago. Guess I was no competition for his career. He couldn’t stand my parents anyway. How about you?”
	Darla shook her head then asked:
	“Children?”
	Karyn looked up at the ceiling.
	“I wanted some -” She started to cry again. “Oh God I  - really - wanted - some -”
	Darla did not know what to say. There was nothing she could say.
	There was no escaping the overwhelming finality of their situation.
	The thing neither female could bring herself to mention, but which both  of them now deeply believed, remained unspoken, and that was that they were never going to know what having children was like.  In fact, it was unlikely that they would ever know again what sunlight felt like, or a warm breeze blowing back their
hair, or beach sand between their toes, or the smell of rain on a hot pavement, or expensive perfume on their smooth skin....or the voices, the faces, the smiles of family members and their friends.
	And that was because the gruesome truth, which neither one wanted to face, was that neither one of them was ever going to leave this awful place alive.
	Darla Bessinger had been hoping to go back to college and take some journalism courses. Now it all seemed fruitless.  All she’d ever done.  Her whole life. Meaningless. The certainty that it was all going to end for her in this cold gloomy place for the pleasure of some bloodthirsty maniacs loomed terribly - she and Karyn were going to be tortured and murdered by men who would deeply enjoy their drawn-out sexual destruction.  Her hands out on either side of her, rolled into fists and she bit her lip to keep from screaming out her horror and her grief.
	“That poor girl,” Karyn sobbed into the wall.
	Darla knew she meant the oriental child they’d both watched Kessler
rape.  He’d told them he was going to kill the luckless waif and sure enough, he’d dragged her off and they’d heard the shrill death-screams.
	“I - I’d pray for her and for - for Mara,” Karyn continued. “ - but I don’t remember the prayers - do - do you? Do you remember? Do you know any?”
	Darla looked down and shook her head.
	There had been no need for prayer in her rich complacent life - nor religion -
except for holidays and occasional family gatherings.  And then it was nothing more than window dressing - less important than the expensive silverware or the
ornaments on the living room center table.
	And now, in this awful place, there were no prayers that could change anything.
	“What about that other woman?” the blonde added.  She was talking about Julie whom the women had caught a glimpse of when Kessler had walked her throught the cellar. “Did you see her eyes? She was like a - puppet. Dear God - what has he done to her?”
	Same thing he’ll do to us, Darla thought.
	“Please, God -” Karyn sobbed. “ -please God please God please God -”
	“ - shhh -” Darla shushed.  “Its ok. Its ok.”
	“ - please - please - God - oh God - please - God - please...”
	Karyn had shut her eyes tightly and her voice rose slightly in pitch as she tilted her head back and tried in vain to pull herself from the steel cuffs on the wall.  She started to yank on her bound limbs, to kick her legs managing only
to chafe and cut the skin even more.
	Darla turned away. Karyn’s hysteria was triggering her own.  She too pulled against the metal cuffs which rattled against the stone wall as she moved, arching her back, unable to bring her knees up, her body weak, her muscles cramping and aching.
	The first couple of days the women had held on to illusory notions of escape or struggle.
	But now even that had been taken away from them. 
	Even though they’d been hosed down their bodies stank of sweat and urine and shit. The dogfood had left a horrible nauseating aftertaste in their mouths and their hair hung down in dirty matted strands over their eyes and faces.  It seemed the thirst never stopped and the aching of their bruised limbs was nearly unbearable.  And though each time the cell door opened their hearts raced with terror, and they were sickened by the thought of the having to eat the foul smelling meat or drink the tepid water from the plastic bowls, or play the killer’s games, they almost welcomed the blessed relief of release from the chains and rusty manacles bolted to the wall.
	Shortly after sinking to their knees before Kessler to try and please him in return for their lives, however, something vital inside them had begun to die.  
	Neither Karyn nor Darla would admit it but as the killer had gone on with his sadistic ruse of promise and denial both women had felt themselves giving in, losing their sense of self.  The outer shell of civilized behavior had been slowly worn away and eventually ripped to tatters, like their fashionable clothes and shoes - tossed into the flames.  For the first time in their lives their primal female vulnerability was made obvious.  Any shred that might have remained of feminist ideals, of sexual equality, had been cast aside.  
	They were in the killer’s world now.  In chains. They were his whores.  Hungry, thirsty, beaten.  They were females in the kingdom of the male.  They were there only for his pleasure, prey to his murderous whims. They knew nothing else would matter. Not their needs or their wants, not their fears, not their humanity.
	And when he’d made them eat each other on the wet floor, their hands trapped behind them, helpless but able to still to please each other, to pass unwillingly into new familiarity, to become forced lovers, to wait for and expect the savage cut of the lash, cheeks to thighs, lips to sex-slits, tongues to clitoris, woman to woman, crying yet aroused, deeply, most deeply aroused - when he’d done that to them they were done for.  They were finished.
	Then, the point had been hammered home when they’d been made to kneel on the wooden table alongside the doomed young stripper to take Kessler’s
rampant cock, to feel the killer inside them, on hands and knees, bent to the task women had been primed to perform since the beginning of time.
	Karyn sobbed and pleaded with a deaf God and Darla hung her head
in shame.
	Naked and helpless the two trapped beaten beauties wondered how any of this could be possible. And most particularly, though they did not speak of it, how, in the midst of such degrading savagery could they have felt pleasure at all. But it was undeniable that they had. Their pussies had responded to Kessler’s invading fuck with warm welcoming wetness.
	Karyn’s voice stopped suddenly.  She sniffed.  Snot trailed from her nose.	
 	“I - I’m sorry -” she muttered. “ - sorry - sorry - sorry -”
	“No,” Darla responded sympathetically. “No. I told you there’s nothing to be sorry ab -.”
	“Yes. Yes there is. I wanted - I wanted him to pick me.”
	Karyn’s eyes gleamed guiltily.
	“I wanted it to be me that pleased him. Me.  Do you understand? I didn’t care if he picked me and left you to die.”
	Darla turned he face away.
	“Did you hear what I said?” Karyn moaned.
	Darla nodded.
	“I wanted it to be me too,” she said softly not looking at Karyn. 
	“When he - when he made me - I wanted to make him cum. I wanted to drink him. To look up at him and know I was saved.  I would even have killed
you myself, I would have killed that little girl,  if he’d asked me to. I felt so - dirty -”
	“ - worthless -” Karyn added. “ - used - that’s how I felt - how I feel too.”
	“This is how women feel, isn’t it?” Darla asked staring at the wall across the room. “When it comes right down to it. When they have us where they want us. I always thought if I was ever raped - if I was ever in this - kind of thing - that I would fight. Fight back, tooth and nail.”
	Karyn nodded weakly.
	“I thought so too,” she said closing her eyes and leaning her forehead against the wall. “Oh God, I thought so too.”
	Darla tilted her head back. The yellowish glow of the bulb shone on her
smooth cheeks.
	“I heard about this little girl once,” she began softly. “This little girl that got kidnapped by a man.  He took her to some place he had, some cabin in the woods or something.  Well, the police never found her.  They found her bike off the side of the road where he’d taken her.  But somebody saw him with the little girl.  She was twelve or thirteen. Someone saw him and when the news came on the TV they called the police. When they went out to talk to him he lied and said he didn’t know what they were talking about. And they had no proof then because the person that had seen him with the girl didn’t want to testify and by then he’d gotten rid of the body. But the police had a hunch it might be him anyway so they started asking around.  Turns out they talked to his doctor. He’d gone to see his doctor a couple of months earlier, about the time the child disappeared. The doctor told the police there were these marks on his - on his dick.”
	Karyn looked at Darla.
	The blonde was breathtaking, almost angelic, yet dirty, whorish and trampy at the same time.  And somehow the whip-welts and the scrapes on her wrists and ankles made her inexplicably even more beautiful. Karyn could see that Darla was lost in the story she was telling and she envied her and wanted her at the same time.  She’d never had such thoughts - was shocked by them - she’d never been physical with another woman, never felt even mildly tempted to do so, but in the last few days the killer had opened her mind to feelings and shades of feelings that she’d kept locked deep.	 Now Karyn wondered where Darla’s story was headed.
	“Marks?” Karyn asked.
	Darla nodded slowly, nibbling on her lower lip, brows arched. She looked like she might start crying again.  After a few moments she regained her composure.
	“The police made the man see one of their own doctors,” she continued.
“They took pictures.  What happened was that the little girl had bitten him -
down there - He had probably made her -” She glanced over at Karyn and looked away. “- made her suck him - and - and she’d bitten him.  And the police were able to match the bite-marks on the killer to her dental records. When they comfronted him with it he confessed.  He took them to where he’d buried her.”
	Slowly Darla’s head slipped down and her face was cast in shadows.
	“He had - gutted her -” she said softly. “Completely gutted her.”
	Karyn shut her eyes. An icy feeling went through her.
	“He told them, the police, that - he’d killed three other girls. The same way in another town.”
	“Dear Jesus,” Karyn sighed. “Why? Why do men need to do those things?”
	“I don’t know,” Darla responded looking up, eyes brimming with tears.
	“Maybe its the way its supposed to be.  Maybe that’s why women are stronger and can bear more pain.  Maybe its so we can - so we can please them with it.”
	Then after a moment Darla said:
	“But can you imagine how brave that little girl was? Knowing. Knowing she was going to - that he was going to kill her -”
	“And fighting back,” Karyn finished.
	Darla nodded slowly.
	“...and fighting back,” she whispered. “Leaving something the police could find.”
	“I’m not that brave,” Karyn said, her voice quivering.
	Darla did not look at her.
	“Neither one of us is,” she said softly. 
	Down the hall outside the holding cell shrill girl-screams had suddenly erupted.
	“Oh God - God - God -” Karyn gasped.
	It sounded like a child.
	Both women then began to cry and scream and plead.
	Explosive blows were being answered by screams of pain.
	Then, suddenly, the door of the cell room had clanged open and Kessler and Robeson had entered.
	The two women stared silently and fearfully at the stranger accompanying Kessler.
	They watched horrified as both men went to the cabinet near the door and got the black leather cock sheaths with the metal spikes on them.
	Robeson took the lead-tipped lash from a hook on the wall.
	In the hallway outside the sounds went on and on, the child’s shrieks
desperately wilder.
	Then suddenly they stopped.
	Kessler smiled.
	“One less cunt in the world,” Kessler commented as he moved toward the women.
	“I want the blonde,” he told Robeson his smile vanishing.
	“Thought you might,” Robeson replied.  “That’s fine with me. You just leave me the other one right where she is.”
	Kessler released Darla from the chains.
	“Crawl, bitch,” he told her.
	The lovely young blonde sank down to the ground on all fours immediately.
	“Follow,” Kessler ordered walking out of the holding cell. The woman trailed silently behind him, her knees scraping against the floor. She stopped beside him as he reached into the cabinet.
	The killer took a wide brown leather slave-collar that hung on a hook inside the cabinet door and leaned over Darla.
	He liked the way her big tits hung toward the floor.
	“Whore,” he muttered as he put the collar around her neck and buckled all three straps tightly.  She could sense his murderous loathing in the way he talked to her and handled her. The collar band was five inches thick and it forced the young woman’s neck to stretch to the limit, pushing up uncomfortably against her chin.
	“Please,” Karyn begged still inside the cell chained to the wall, looking back over her shoulder as Robeson stepped up behind her. “Please - don’t -”
	She could see the deadly lead-tipped lash in his hand.
	“Please,” she said again.
	She saw Kessler outside clip a leash to the slave collar he’d just buckled around Darla’s neck and yank the blonde behind him out the  door into the hallway.
	“Darla?” Karyn cried out. “Darla!”
	“Shut up, cunt!” Robeson snarled. “Don’t you fucking worry about Darla. She’ll be well taken care of...You got plenty to worry about right here.”
	The redhead’s eyes went wide as Robeson raised the lash.
	“Plenty  to worry about!” he grunted.
	The multi-tonged whip whistled meanly down on Karyn.
	All ten lead-tips slammed into the sensitive flesh of her back.
	With all the energy she could muster the redhead raised her head at the ceiling and screamed.  It felt like a flaming torch had been applied to her
spine.
	“Yeahhh!” Robeson shouted approvingly.
	The blow slammed the redhead against the wall, her tits pressing into the cold stone.  She felt warm trickles of blood begin to ooze from the cuts on her back and then she heard the wicked whistle of the whip again.
	As the lead pellets thrummed into her pale flesh she thought of the
little girl who’d fought back and then she jerked to the pain and howled.
	At that same moment and just as Karyn screamed with the blinding pain that cleared her head of all images Kirkwood, in the room down the hall, was lifting little Ann Rowen’s decapitated head to his cock.

21. Darla And Karyn Pay

	Darla Bessinger crawled behind Kessler as he led her away from the
holding cells.  
	The smack of Robeson’s lead-tipped whip tearing into Karyn Waters and the woman’s deafening screams muted behind the heavy wooden door that slid shut just after Kessler tugged Darla through it lingered threateningly in Darla’s mind.  The hallway floor under her hands and knees was cold and dirty and tears ran from her eyes as Kessler tugged on the leash forcing her to keep up with him,
her soot-smudged footsoles treading jerkily.  The unusually wide collar he’d buckled around her neck was extremely uncomfortable, holding her head rigidly stretched and immobile and the way he was yanking her along convinced her that the true ordeal was only just beginning.  She could sense Kessler’s raw excitement, his eagerness, and that could only mean that things were about to get real bad, probably much worse than she could imagine.
	It was hard to believe that just a few days earlier she and Karyn had lived in a world of relative reason, comfort and legality and that now both of them were being treated as nothing more than animals with no freedom and no rights, slaughterhouse animals, who could look forward to nothing but pain and death at the hands of twisted male agressors.
	But even after four days of psychological torture, beatings and rapes nothing even vaguely prepared Darla for the gruesome scene before her as she was led into the chamber Kessler now entered.
	As the door thunked shut behind her she looked upon the beheaded body of a young girl, Jessie Rowen’s little sister Ann, lying on the floor near a wooden table. 
	Bruises, welts and cuts covered every inch of skin surface on the small cadaver which stretched out upside down, star-like in a gruesome pool of blood.  The head of the nubile female rested on the edge of the table above the body, eyes partly open in death, thick gobs of cum trickling off the cheeks and forehead. The jagged neck slash still spilled thick dark blood which dripped off the edge of the table and ran down one the table leg.
	Instantly, choking back a scream, her mind reeling, dizzy with astonishment, Darla could think of nothing but the child in the story she had just shared with Karyn, the child who had bitten her kidnapper’s penis in an effort to leave evidence for the authorities.
	The horribly mutilated child Darla now looked upon clearly had found no such way of fighting back or defending herself and her heartless torturer and killer stood unscathed, in fact, positively victorious, sword still in hand, his cock oozing the last sticky streams of jism he had emptied on the dead child’s face. In fact, he seemed proud of his demented deed as Kessler let out a whistle of admiration.
	“Goddamn!” Kessler commented.  “You’ve been busy!”
	He looked down at Darla who turned her face down to the floor sobbing.
	“Don’t you think so, cunt? Huh? Don’t you think Kirkwood here’s been busy? Don’t you think he’s used that little bitch up real nice?”
	He yanked at the leash and tugged her high-collared head up by her hair.
	“Answer me you stinking whore!”
	“I - c-can’t ans-answer you,” Darla muttered.
	“You can’t answer me? You can’t answer me? What do you think about that, Bill? This snooty smarty-pants whore has no answer for her Master.”
	Kirkwood chuckled.
	“I think you’ll get an answer from her eventually,” he said.
	“You better fucking believe that, by God. Get on your feet, whore! Now!”
	Reluctantly, shivering visibly, Darla rose first on one knee, leaned on one dirty hand, then up, to stand before both killers, her knees smudged black.
	“Look at those fucking tits,” Kirkwood noted admiringly.
	Darla hung her head, cheeks burning.
	“Yeah,” Kessler agreed. “This pig has as nice a pair of melons as we’ve had
the pleasure to deal with in a while and we will most fuckin’ definitely deal with them.”
	Although he’d just had two mind-numbing orgasms provoked by the delicious slaughter of Ann Rowen, Kirkwood felt himself starting to grow hard again.
	He looked down at the black leather spiked dildo that Kessler had strapped on.
	“You plan on using that on ‘er?” he asked.
	“Hell, yes. That and more, but before I do I want you to help me work on ‘er if you’re up for it.”
	“I’m always up for big-titted cunts.  You bet.”
	“Hold your boobs up for us,” Kessler told Darla.
	She stood motionless, staring down, her mind shrinking from the human 
devastation that lay on the floor nearby and the thick stench of human waste. 
	Kessler slapped her hard across the face and she gave out a high pitched
yelp.
	“You do what I tell you to do, cunt, do you hear me? Grab those tits in your hands and lift them up for us.”
	She trembled, bit her lip, but remained obstinately disobedient.
	He slapped her again. Harshly.
	She whimpered but did not reply and did not move.
	“Ok,” Kessler said softly.“You’re in for it now,”  

(Don’t they know resistance only spurs us on? Women always lose. They are genetically pre-disposed to do so.  No matter how many self-defense courses they take, no matter how strong they feel themselves to be. They are primed for surrender. Watch them when they’re fucked.  Their bodies give in, accept, fall. Yielding is the natural female instinct - to give up.  We can always get that out of them whenever we need it.  It’s there for us to take and enjoy. Men are the keepers of eternal power and control.  There are always moments of brief bravery. There are anomalies, such as lesbians whose genetic masculinity makes them an unfair standard of comparison or men who adopt submission because of their inadequacy and inability to handle power, a weakness sometimes caused by castrating females.  But by and large, most women, even the ‘self-reliant’ kind, are ready to open themselves to any physical or mental fucking the male wants to put them through.  It’s in their wiring.  And women who are built for fucking, young, beautiful, slender-legged and big-titted stand no chance.  They’ve lost the battle before they’ve even begun.  They are victims from the word go. The true bitch-killer knows that.  He brings that out in a woman.  He works on her shame, on her indecisiveness, on her need to be stuffed full of cock and uses it all to achieve his single-minded end: total unquestioned mastery and ownership.)

	Kessler seized the leash that was still hooked to Darla’s  wide-banded slave collar and he pulled the big-titted high-collared blonde toward him.   She lunged helplessly forward and he sidestepped at the last minute to drive his fist into her belly. Then he spun her around and pulled on the leash forcing her to walk backward, half bent over, clutching her waist and gasping for breath as she was rammed back against a wooden column.   The column was rigged with a set of cuffs on each side and Kessler forced the emerald-eyed blonde to push her hands through the leather loops which were just below her hips. He buckled the cuff-straps as hard as he could around her wrists so that her arms were pulled down, hugging the post behind her and she could feel the sharp steel barbs of the dildo that was strapped to his cock as it pricked her thighs when he pushed against her.
	When he finished with her arms he crouched down on one knee and slid steel bands that were bolted to the base of the post around her ankles snapping them shut. 
	 Leaving her tightly secured against the post he stepped back.
	“You think you can play that fucked-up silent resistance shit with me?” he asked scowling.
	“I’m not one of your Beamer-driving boyfriends hoping to get lucky.”
	She looked down at the floor her face forced upright by the wide collar, the back of her head against the post.  Kessler just stared at her, his brows knitted, his body coiled with sexual anger.
	It was impossible for her to avoid the huge threatening dildo festooned with spikes that reared up from his crotch directly in front of her.
	Beside her, on the wooden table, Ann Rowen’s head stared lifelessly at the wall across the room.
	Darla fought back the nausea that rose up inside her.  The butchered body of Kirkwood’s young victim was too much for her.  Tears welled up in her eyes.
	Kessler spat on her and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.	
	He reached out and seized Darla’s face by her chin to force her to look into his dark menacing eyes.  A gob of phlegm trickled down her cheek.
	“Ok, cunt.  Let me make this clear to you. You are  going to talk.  And the first word you are going to say to me is ‘mercy’.  ‘Mercy, master. You got it?” She stood against the post, silent.  “I hope you do, scumbag,  I really hope you do. Cause if you don’t say that word to me I won’t stop what I’m doing.”
	He took a breath.
	His eyes glinted wildly.
	“Even then - who knows?” I just might not stop anyway.”
	With that he moved in, hunched forward in attack mode, and without further warning or hesitation began to punch Darla with well aimed jabbing thrusts of his arms, slamming his fists into her belly and her pussy and her upper thighs.  Behind him, Kirkwood jerked off slowly.  The sound of flesh being struck, woman-meat being pounded, the gasping breathless grunts of the victim, the growls of the attacker, all conspired to excite Ann Rowen’s vicious killer back to full sado-sexual heat.
	“Smash ‘er!” he growled.
	And Kessler did just that, not holding back, pounding into the bound
blonde female with fierce energy.  Her arms and legs struggled against the
wrist and leg irons that held her and which clattered metallically against the wood and she rose on her toes, eyes shut tightly, face turned to one side as Kessler drove his hard-knuckled fists into her.  She began to gasp as the wind was repeatedly knocked out of her and to go pale and bite her lower lip as he now began to punch her cunt-mound with slow-timed left-right blows.
	“Ngghh!” she grunted. “Gh-pleeeeze! Owhh! Owgghh!”
	Kessler continued to punch his blonde bitch-slave, not even looking at her face, concentrating on the pleasure of the bare-fisted beating and the damage he was causing.  This was one of his favorite forms of punishment, certainly the most direct. Pounding into a helplessly bound female’s sex, one on one, released all his demonic energy, took him to a higher place of sadistic power.
	“M-muhhrcy!” she groaned, searching for his eyes. “Mercy, ma-ugghh -
mer-ggh! pleeeeze! Mercy, master, please!”
	“Fuck you, pig!” he growled pounding into her cunt again and again.
	A thin stream of bloody piss moved down Darla’s bound leg.
	“Yeahhh!” Kirkwood shouted.
	Darla Bessinger choked as bitter bile filled her throat and spewed from her lips.
	“Ugg! UGhhh!” She grunted as Kessler’s fists slampunched her cunt. “Mercy! Mer-ugg! Mercy, master - mercy - mercy - mercy- ughh!”
	Breathless with lust Kessler stepped back.
	“There is no mercy here, cunt - Heat up the metal rods, Bill.  I wanna
burn this bitch.  And when you get that going join me.  Let’s show this rich girl the kind of mercy we show snobby little cunts like her around here.”
	He took her tits by her nipples pinching her nubs between thumb and index, pulling her big paps up and out toward him. Darla whined and pleaded with her eyes but remained fearfully silent.  Since puberty she’d always felt self-conscious about her large meaty boobs, especially because men stared at them. The first time she’d worn a bikini to the beach men had fairly swarmed around her though she was only fourteen.  Eventually she began to enjoy the attention even if sometimes men or boys didn’t even look at her face opting instead to stare stupidly at the twin mounds that sprung lasciviously from her chest. There was a sense of control in being able to make guys fall all over themselves to  park your car, or open a door for you in the mall. Especially when you came from money and lived a carefree life. But now all sense of control and power and self-worth had been stripped away. Now pulled out in front of her her tits were just so much aching meat in the strong hands of the killer. Now all the money in the world, all the status, all the trappings of wealth meant nothing. Now, Darla Bessinger was just worthless female flesh, just another fox-pelt for the greedy hunters.
	In the room Kirkwood moved about quickly.
	He brought out the cauldron grill that he, Robeson and Kessler had constructed for their own special use.  While Kessler played with Darla’s heavy jugs, pulling on the nipples, pinching them hard, making the bitch groan and kick against the post, then tit-slapping her, making her meat-paps bounce up and down and side to side, Kirkwood poured fresh charcoal into the metal pan, doused it with lighter fluid and tossed in a match.  When the flames wooshed and danced around the coals he propped two spear-tipped metal bars in the grill. Then he picked up a strand of thick rope and walked up behind the post Darla was cuffed to.
	While Kessler roughhoused with Darla’s tits, Kirkwood reached up and unbuckled the collar Kessler had put around her neck earlier letting it slip off and fall to the floor. At first, the bound blonde’s head sagged down in relief, her hair spilling in spiraling tangles over her face, and then she was trying to look around but could not see what the man behind her was doing as he looped the rope then wound it twice around her exposed throat. Kessler, in front of her, continued to tug on her now swollen dark-pink nipples and to slap her tits around. His palm prints were already etched all over the full flesh globes. Picking up a thick wooden dowel from where it lay on the floor near his feet Kirkwood inserted it into the loops of the rope that went around Darla’s slender neck and he began to turn it slowly behind her, like a tourniquette.  As he turned the dowel the rope began to garott Darla.  Then, the blonde began to choke and squirm then to cry out as Kessler began to punch her big mams hard.
	Between them, the two killers strangled and beat the bound woman, teaming up against her.  It was something they’d done before and savagely enjoyed.
	Darla could not even scream.  She stared wide-eyed into Kessler’s gloating features as he drew back and lunged repeatedly, driving his fists deep into her
titmeat.  Her head now was drawn back tightly against the post as Kirkwood
slowly rotated the dowel.  Kessler slapped her tits hard until they were sore and tingling then closed his fists to punch them unmercifully. “Bitch!” he kept
growling. “Filthy - fucking - bitch -”
	He hated Darla and all she represented, the wealthy, the beautiful people,
powerful and priviliged.  But most of all he hated her for being young, for being sexy and for being a woman. He punched her, striking at the most perfect target of her feminity, her ample wobbling mammaries, and kept on punching her until dark ugly bruises welled up all over her boobs. He wanted to punch her nose and her mouth also, wanted to see blood explode from her nostrils, but for the moment focused instead on her big saucy jugs while Kirkwood tightened the garrot. He would get to that haughty aristocratic face later on, perhaps during the final slaughter.
	The room began to smell of smoke as the flaming coals and the metal pipes standing in the grill generated heat. The odor mixed with the sour smell of sweat, of human excrement and death.
	Kessler reached down and took a clump of Darla’s blonde pussyhair to
yank it out of her mons and make her shriek and gasp, choked by the rope
around her throat.
	“Whattayaknow,” he chuckled. “A natural blonde.”
	“Punch her some more, Mike,” Kirkwood urged turning the dowel slowly,
Darla’s face now deeply red as her eyes tilted up to the ceiling.
	“You got it,” Kessler grunted and began again to beat the tormented
big-titted blonde right where it hurt the most.  
	“Aghh!” she squawked. “gh - gh -gh -”
	His fists sank into bruised boob-flesh smacking her tits right up against her ribs with crushing force.

				____________________

	Back in the holding cell Robeson swung his lead-tipped lash, making it wrap around Karyn Waters’ waist, sharply, making the young chain-bound redhead
jump screaming to the pain.  Her back was streaked and crossed with
hundreds of tiny red welt-cuts. She lunged and twisted against the wall
as Robeson tore into her wordlessly, his eyes fixed in a hostile stare as he whipped his victim.
	He swung the multitongued weapon hard across Karyn’s firm asscheeks
then moved down her strong captive legs making sure that the hard
lead tips tore at the insides of her thighs and at her kneehollows and
calves.  He whipped his bitch-slave with repetitive strokes that did not
falter or hesitate.
	All his life, Robeson had seen women like Karyn drive in and out of the Amoco station he owned, not even giving him a second look.  He’d stood behind the counter in his grease-smeared overalls and they would pay for a diet soda or for breath mints without even looking up to see his face, turning and going back to their cars, their high heels clacking on the way out.
	“Have a nice day,” he would tell them.
	Sometimes they would say nothing.
	Other times they would just say “Yeah”, disdainfully, patronizingly.
	Like Kessler and Kirkwood he too hated rich women, and if they were smart and in business like this slut, he hated them even more, hated them unspeakably and thought they deserved the most violent punishment possible. How dared they compete with men in their own arena? How dared they think they could even try? He couldn’t wait to ram his barbed dildo-shaft up into this whore’s holes and make her scream like a stuck pig.
	Between cuts of the whip he could hear Darla Bessinger’s cries of pain coming from the room down the hall as Kessler labored on her.
	He knew that big-titted slut was also getting what she deserved.
	Smiling cruelly, working up a sweat, the barbed dildo sustained in mid-air by his energetic erection, Robeson continued his attack on Karyn now slicing into
her thighs, making the lead-tipped multi-tongued instrument of punishment
wrap around her gorgeous legs.
	“Aa-oowwhhh! Oww! Agghh!” Karyn keened protesting to each resounding slash.  She moved energetically to the hot pain being delivered byher torturer’s whip and as he took his blows back up her body dwelling on her
plump round rear, lead tips cutting into the meat, tiny trickles of blood streaming down her asscheeks and legs, she positively danced against the chains that held her.
	Knowingly, Robeson sped up the pace and put more force behind his whipcuts as he moved back up his bitch-slave’s back cutting through welts
already placed on her, snapping at her flanks at her hips and at the sides of her bouncing tits. Then he began to strike randomly, at her ankles, at her shoulders, at her waist, across her jiggling buttglobes, with no pattern, rapidly, so that she
could not know where the venomous barbed tongues would strike next.
	Her cries went wildly shrill and she huffed and gasped for breath and
yanked downward and outward from the wall, pissing herself as the pain
enveloped her.
	Robeson moved from one side of the room to the other in a semi-circle around the beaten businesswoman as he continued the merciless flogging so that the lash could snake its way to her belly and tits. Her feet slipping in the puddle of her own warm urine Karyn tried to press forward to save herself from the long flailing reach of the lash but when a stroke would tear into her lower back again she would respond instinctively by arching away from the wall and Robeson, ever vigilant for whatever advantage could be taken, did not hesitate to make the whip curl around his helpless target.
	Changing his approach, Robeson then began to whip Karyn Waters
with violent full-powered blows and instead of the rapid-fire delivery he’d maintained up until that point he slowed way down.  Now he swung his lash masterfully, aiming the lead-tipped balls for maximum delivery across her spine, across her bleeding rump, across the backs of her thighs, striking as much flesh area as was possible and waiting almost thirty seconds before striking again so that the harsh burning pain could wreak havoc on his victim and destroy her mind as well as her flesh. 
	With each of those overwhelming blows Karyn shrieked and tensed
against the chains paroxysmically, every nerve and muscle in her body protesting
the unwarranted attack.  She pleaded with the aggressor in the silence between
each wrenching slash, looked back at him begging for pity, sobbing for it, trembling but he remained silent and impassive, still staring fixedly at her
as if she was nothing more than a slab of meat before raising the whip to
drown her in pain once again.
	These savage cuts tore Karyn’s flesh leaving jagged intermittently blood-rimmed welts that swelled and dripped and disfigured her smooth skin.
	Robeson cupped his balls which hung loose under the edge of the
spiked dildo as he tore the whip across the sobbing woman.  Since his
cock was encased inside the studded rubber shaft he could not stroke himself
and this denial was only increasing his violent sexual appetite.  The screams
of the woman as he struck her and her ensuing pleading made him
squeeze his hot genitals, his prick surging inside the barbed shaft.
	After nearly thirty of these slow-paced blows he stood directly behind
the spread-legged redhead and waited for her to calm down, waited for her
sobbing to abate.
	Then he said:
	“I’m gonna whip your cunt.”
	“Noooooo!” she cried out.
	“Yes, pig. I’m gonna whip your filthy hole and then I’m going to fuck it. Then I’m gonna fuck you up the ass. I’m gonna give you fifteen cuts and I want to hear you count ‘em.”
	“Pleease - pleeeeeease!” she groaned trying to find his eyes.
	“You’ll take it and you’ll count or I’ll just kill you now,” he replied bluntly.
	His eyes suddenly fixed on hers and she withered, turning her face back to the wall, whimpering.
	“Ready to count for me?” he snarled.
	After a moment she gathered her strength, her toes gripped the piss-wet floor.
	Nothing in her life had prepared her for this moment. Absolutely nothing. As a child she remembered only one or two spankings delivered quickly by one or another of her parents. She had been trained to be a proper young woman who didn’t talk about unseemly subjects and had rarely given those who had guardianship of her life any cause to be upset.  Like Darla, she had led a conflict-free life where reason always prevailed and authority was always respected and a sense of correctness was never questioned.  
	That was over with.
	The rules had been rewritten.
	Slowly, reticently, she nodded her assent.
	“Say it for me,” Robeson growled. “Say it.”
	She hung her head, quivering in anticipation of what was coming.
	The lead-tipped lash was going to tear her pussylips to shreds.
	There was no way out for her and she knew it.
	“Y-yess - yes, s-sir - I- I’m ready.”
	Robeson clenched his teeth, his feet spreading apart as he took aim.
	He swung the whip up from the floor and into Karyn Waters exposed cuntslit.
	All ten lead balls smacked into pussymeat.
	“Aaiieeeee!” the bitch screamed.
	“Count!” the killer shouted.
	She sobbed brokenly, sagged against the chains.
	“- uhh - nnhh - one,” she whimpered softly.
	
			____________________

	In the killing room down the hall Darla’s nipples dripped blood.
	Kirkwood gave the garott bar another turn and flashes burst in the tortured slut’s field of vision.
	She gasped for air open-mouthed and Kessler spat on her tongue.
	“Let’s burn this pig,” he told Kirkwood as Darla audibly gagged.
	Kirkwood released the garott slowly and Darla’s head hung down, drool bubbling from her lips.
	As the other killer left his position behind the tit-beaten slut and went to the grill for the metal bars propped in the coals Kessler took two large fishing hooks, similar to the ones Kirkwood had used on Ann Rowen, from the drawer cabinet, and stabbed them through Darla’s bleeding nipples.  He then clipped each hook to a connecting strand of chain which he lifted toward the sob-choking victim’s red swollen groaning mouth pushing her head back up against the post.
	“You wouldn’t hold your tits up for us with your hands earlier, would you, bitch?” Kessler’s voice was venomously fierce. “Now you’ll do it with your mouth. Take this chain in your teeth and keep those tits high.”
	Darla obeyed wordlessly biting down on the chain.  It pulled on her torn nipples and raised her fat dark-bruised boobs back up toward her face exposing the white tender flesh underneath.
	Kirkwood came back with the two heated metal spears handing Kessler a pair of work-gloves similar to the ones he, Kirkwood, was wearing.
	Kessler donned the gloves and took the metal weapon the tip of which was
glowing.
	Both killers stood before Darla now, hot metal spears in their gray-gloved hands.
	Their faces were grim, scowling, eyes greedy.
	The twin mounds of Darla’s upstretched boobs presented a most appealing target for the sizzling metal spear-tips.
	“Ngh! Ngh! N-nggaww!” Darla croaked shaking her head.
	“If you drop that chain we’ll burn your nipples out,” Kessler told her.
“You hear me?”
	Her tear blurred eyes stared at his.
	She had intensely green eyes that made Kessler’s cock throb inside the
speared dildo.
	“Do - you - fuckin’ - hear - me, scumbag?” he snarled angrily.
	The words tore into her like whipstrokes.
	“Y-yazzz-” she groaned softly.
	“Good. Now take the pain we give you.”
	Slowly, he raised the glowing metal tip to the stretched underside of
Darla’s left breast.
	The bitch cringed back against the post, rose up on her toes.
	There was no escape from  the hot steel  that pressed against her tit with a wet hiss; Kessler pushed the sharp end gently into the meat that now belonged to him.
	“Ahrrrrrrgggh!” she howled, gritting her teeth, lips bared, as she bit
on to the chain that pulled both of her hooked nipples up to her sweating face.
	As Kessler drew the spear back a dark smudgy wound became visible
on his victim’s titflesh.
	“My turn,” Kirkwood growled.
	His spear came in contact with the lower edge of Darla’s right boob where the big titflesh met the chest. It too hissed loudly.
	Kirkwood pressed deeper than Kessler as Darla shuddered and quaked slamming her head back against the post, blood oozing from her hooked beaten nipples and down the sides of her white paps like melting strawberry jam on
two fat gobs of vanilla ice-cream.
	As Kirkwood withdrew his spear Kessler pushed his in slightly below
the first gaping black wound he’d already left there.
	Both killers slowly alternated the spearing of the hapless female’s stretched jugs taking their sweet time, leaving the metal hilted in her for seconds on end
to burn and cauterize the piercings.  Smoke wafted up from the burning titmeat. Blood and bits of carbonized skin drifted down Darla’s chest and belly but she managed obediently to hold the chain that kept her big paps upstretched in her bared teeth to, her nipples erect and swollen and bleeding, hook-pierced, brought together about two inches below her trembling chin.  
	The men worked their way up the underside of the fat tits making
circle-shaped incisions, moving up to just beneath the snagged nipplemeat, sometimes rubbing the the heated metal against the sides of Darla’s impaled boobs leaving dark red track marks all over them.
	When the spears cooled down Kessler turned to Kirkwood.
	“Heat these up again.”
	As he handed the other man his spear he moved toward the bound blonde.
	“I’m gonna hang her legs up so we can go to work on her cunt.”
	“Ngghh! Nrrggh!” Darla cried.
	Kessler stared at her suffering face and leered.
	It was hard to believe that this wild-eyed disheveled creature was the same confident beautiful woman he’d seen on the street in Whitehall only four days
earlier.
	“You just keep that chain in your mouth if you want to live, pig,” he told her.
	He crouched down and released her ankles from the steel cuffs on the post. Then he took her legs and raised them up off the ground one at a time to re-cuff the ankles from suspension chains on either side of her leaving her spread wide.
Vulnerably exposed, her small bare dirty-soled feet higher than her head, Darla winced as her arms which were cuffed to the post behind her took the brunt of her weight. Her breathing was labored. Drool ran down her chin and tears washed her face which gleamed wetly in the harsh light of the killing room.  Kessler stood between her up-flung thighs and reached down to grasp her wounded burned tits in his hands. The tip of the barbed dildo-shaft hovered at just the right height to
penetrate Darla’s fuckslit but he wasn’t ready to give it to her yet. 
	Not just yet.
	He pushed his fingers into her burn-wounds and squeezed blood from her
stretched disfigured tit-globes making her sob brokenly and moan feebly and look
up at him.
	From across the room as he waited for the rods to heat up on the grill Kirkwood watched jerking off slowly.
	He knew what was coming next and his balls were already swollen with
anticipation. He needed a temporary distraction or he would go crazy.
	As Kessler played with Darla’s burn-gouged boobs Kirkwood went to
the table and picked up little Ann Rowen’s head by the hair.
	He reached down and pried the decapitated child’s little lips open to push his big fingers into her mouth.  He rubbed his prick on Ann’s still moist cheeks and took her dismembered head in both hands to stuff his shaft past her lips forcing the dead girl’s jaw impossibly wide.  The child’s mandible snapped open audibly and both Kessler and Darla looked over at Kirkwood as he stood there his big cock half-way in the severed head.  Blood dribbled from the sliced neck.
	“Goddamn,” Kessler grunted approvingly.
	Darla sobbed at the horrific sight.
	“Feels fuckin’ great,” Kirkwood ranted as he slid Ann’s little head back and forth on his organ, her dead eyes already viscous and grayish.
	“Wanna try it?” he asked Kessler.
	The other killer turned to Kirkwood his hands palms up to indicate the
spiked dildo jutting from his crotch.
	“I’ll tear that shit apart,” he told Kirkwood who slowly slid out of Ann
Rowen’s pretty little head and held it out by the hair to the other killer.
	“Go for it,” Kirkwood said.
	Kessler reached out and took the child’s head.
	He was surprised by its weight.
	He looked down and saw the sad gaping face of the murdered victim and wondered how much shit Kirkwood had put her through.  It made him feel powerful to know that he had brough forth such evil murderousness in the men that shared the Vanner warehouse with him.  He had opened their minds to the dark hunger of the male predator and now they were no longer hesitant to release it, to go as far as it would take them.  He had turned them into carbon copies of himself.
	He put the tip of the barbed dildo in little Ann Rowen’s mouth.
	Kidnapping the Rowen sisters had been extremely enjoyable.
	Even more enjoyable for Kessler had been the slaughter of the older sister while this younger one had watched...and then leaving the little bitch half crazed and hanging in the refrigerated chamber where he had played with her and the whore Julie. By the time Kirkwood took her the child’s mind must have been totally gone
and he could see by the condition of the mutilated corpse that the killer had
taken the child to the absolute limits of human pain and suffering.  Kessler regretted that there had been no cameras to capture the crude torture-kill but he knew from experience that the planned events later that day would more than compensate for that.
	Taking the dead child’s head in both hands as Kirkwood had done he pushed the barbed dildo into little Ann’s wide yawning mouth.  The metal studs on his dildo ripped the tender skin inside as he pushed down her throat scraping and tearing her tongue, gouging, and as he butcher-fucked the severed head, gore and blood dripped from Ann’s nostrils and from her lower lip and chin and from the neck hole in the slice-cut.  
	Kirkwood had been right.  It did feel good. The pressure of the murdered
child’s throat around his sheathed prick was heavenly and he dipped down, his
knees bending as his hips thrust back and forth hilting and retrieving the dildo in Ann’s mouth, her nose right up to his crotch as he pushed inward, her mouth
spilling blood as he rocked back.
	“Ahhh, yeahhh,” Kessler groaned.
	He looked over at Darla who hung wide-legged against the post.
	The woman was watching him fuck the dead child’s head with slack-jawed
horror.
	Behind him Kirkwood was masturbating, a perverse, knowing smile on his lips.
	Soon the spears would be hot again.
	Darla could see both men, their eyes slitted, their strong bodies sweaty.  She was almost losing it, going over the edge into some diffused never-never land.
	She watched as Kessler turned toward her, slid his sheathed cock out of the child’s raped bloody mouth came toward the post holding the severed head by the hair showing it to her as if it were a trophy.
	“Pretty, isn’t she?” Kessler asked standing between Darla’s suspended legs.
	Kirkwood chuckled.
	“Gh! Ghrrhh! Gghh!” Darla replied. She was struck by the irony of the horror she was being subjected to. In the story she’d shared with Karyn earlier a little girl, a helpless victimized female, had been heroic, she had fought back and left identifying marks on the killer.  Justice had been served. This child, whose severed head Kessler was now showing her, had been ruthlessly destroyed and was now nothing more than a dead plaything. Ann Rowen’s eyes told the whole story, gray and sad in death.  Fighting back was useless. There would be no heroics here. No hope. In her clenched teeth Darla bit down on the chain that held her tortured tits up by the hooked nipples, terrified that if she released it Kessler would finish her instantly.  No. There would be no justice here. No mercy and no pity. The killers would not hesitate to slaughter her as they’d slaughtered that child with complete impunity and all she could do now was hope that she could survive one more hour, one more minute, one more second.  That was all she had left - save for the idea of survival her mind was now empty of all other human considerations.
	Kessler held the child’s head high over his face and let the blood drip down on his cheeks.
	“Mmmmm,” he moaned. “There’s just nothing like the feel of a little girl’s blood on your face.”
	Then he slowly brought down his arm.  Ann’s head dangled from his clenched fist; it hung next to his strong thigh, the cool bloody cheek brushing against his hot skin. After a moment he dropped the dead child’s head to the floor.  It hit the stone with a thump rolled once and lay still in a swirl of blonde, blood spattered hair.
	Darla looked into the killer’s face.
	Ann Rowen’s blood trickled down off his forehead and down his cheek to drip on his shoulder.
	“Get the spears,” Kessler told Kirkwood calmly without turning, keeping his eyes steadily and murderously on Darla’s.
	“We’re gonna burn this bitch’s cunt black.”

				____________________

	In the holding cell Robeson positioned himself up against Karyn, bending down slightly to bring the black barbed cock-sheath up between her whipped thighs.
	The bitch was spreadeagled, face to the wall, ankles and wrists rubbed raw
from her struggling.
	He had given her fifteen solid whipstrokes on her exposed cunt using the
lead-tipped lash then he’d given her an extra ten for the hell of it. All through it
she was screaming hysterically, babbling, rocking violently against the wall,
banging her head against it.
	Then he had dropped the whip and he had moved in to take her.
	His hands moved down her welted, cut-swollen back on both sides, down to her wide hips also scarred from his whipping.
	He put the head of the dildo-spear to her cuntslit and she moaned and
began to shake.
	Her torn, savaged, bleeding cuntlips felt like torn silk against his fingertips as he spread them apart.
	“Here we go, bitch” he grunted and he pushed upward into the redhead.
	She made a loud ugly nasal whining crying sound as he sank into her,
the metal barbs tearing into her pussy.  The inhuman sound of agony pleased
Robeson immensely and he began to thrust in and out as blood trickled down
the barbed, black rubber dildo shaft.
	He released her cuntlips and they flopped down around the serrating edges
of his pistoning shaft increasing her torment as he moved his hands to her hips.
	Karyn craned her head back open mouthed, wailing and sobbing as
the killer fucked her cunt with his studded dildo-shaft.
	His hands moved up and around her gripping her tightly, feeling her
hot welt-wounds, coming around to grab her breasts, the sides of which were
multiply sliced and bleeding.
	Robeson fucked his punished slavebitch harder as he cupped her whipped titmeat in both hands then his palms moved up to her shoulders to grip her
and push her down into his impaling shaft.
	As he hilted the barbed cock in her her cries of pain intensified.
	He felt the tip of the sheath butt up against her cervix.
	“Awwwhggghhh!” she cried, stretching against the chains, going way up 
on her toes.
	Blood streamed from her cunt and down the shaft into Robeson’s balls and he moaned with pleasure leaning down to bite Karyn’s whip-scored shoulderblades.  The taste of her hot flesh spurred him on even more and he slammed in and out of his chained redhead slaughterwhore, going up and down, knees bent, hips thrusting smoothly.
	Taking her head by her hair he slid all the way out of her cunt and placed the tip of the bloody barbed fuck-shaft to the small wrinkled star of her anus.
	Karyn had never been fucked up the ass - good girls just didn’t do that sort of thing - now she knew she was going to be ripped apart and there was nothing she could do about it.
	“Nooo!” she shrieked dementedly. “Oh G-Goddd nooooo pleeeease noooooo - A-A-awwghh!”
	He thrust into her asshole, a true bitch-killer, pushing upward with no regard for her suffering, holding her by her hair to jam the studded shaft inch by painful inch deep into her asshole.

				____________________

	Simultaneously, in the killing room, Kessler pushed the white-hot metal tip of metal into Darla Bessinger’s dripping cuntmouth.
	The green eyed blonde exploded as the metal blazed into her and as her mouth gaped in a loud roaring shriek she dropped the chain that held her hooked
tits upstretched allowing the burned, meaty, spear-gouged paps to flop down.
	While Kessler held the sizzling metal in Darla’s cunt Kirkwood crouched down beside the screaming woman and raised his heated shaft up into her
asshole.
	Both men spear-raped their suspended, wide-legged, bouncing, keening
slut with the hot weapons thrusting deep into her making her bang her head
back agains the post.
	“Take it, you worthless pig!” Kessler grunted.
	“Goddamn scumbag!” Kirkwood added. “Fucking worthless blonde bimbo cunt. Where’s your rich daddy now?”
	Kessler laughed brutally.
	He kicked little Ann Rowen’s head aside to gain closer access to Darla’s suffering cunt.  It rolled across the floor and bumped into the child’s carcass coming to rest there where it most adequately belonged leaving a trail of gore as it slid to its resting place in  puddled sticky blood.
	Now Kessler stood between Darla’s kicking bound legs rubbing the
hot metal up and down her twat-slit, burning her clitoris and her labia, her belly and the inside of her thighs, then he thrust the spear hard into her already blackened smouldering hole as Kirkwood slammed his own weapon upward.
	Darla passed out from the pain and Kessler slapped her until she
regained consciousness, her eyes out of focus, her mind gone.
	Both killers tortured their blonde female victim smiling with pleasure as she yowled dementedly.
	They could hear Karyn’s screams from the room down the hall, equally
crazed, unchecked, unrepressed expressions of pure womanpain.
	Kessler withdrew the spear and Kirkwood followed suit.
	Blood and blackened bits of shit and skin, dark slimy piss rippled out
of Darla as she sagged groaning on the ropes, her feet wriggling from side to side as Kessler moved right up to her and put the barbed dildo-shaft to her burned-out cunt-mouth.
	He gripped her boobs in his hands, blood spilling between his clutching fingers from her hooked nipples and black-smeared gouge-wounds and, just like Robeson had done seconds earlier with Karyn in the holding cell, Kessler pushed his own weapon-cock into the luckless female, ripping into her.
	Darla’s head toppled back and she looked up into her attacker’s eye-slits.
	“G-agggaaaa?” she cried out incoherently. 
	Was she asking him why or had her mind just slipped loose as a result of  the traumatic punishment?
	Whatever it was, this senseless questioning look, it pleased him incredibly and he slammed deep into her, the barbs on his shaft tearing the singed lining of her
vaginal passage, tearing cut-lines into it, grooving it, bleeding it.
	The questioning look was replaced by the more familiar wincing frenzied expression of sheer raw pain which Kessler so deeply enjoyed on  a young female’s face and he fucked Darla now with hard jabbing thrusts that tore the slaughter-bitch apart
	Then the intercom on the wall by the door buzzed loudly.
	For a moment Kessler and Kirkwood stared at each other disconcertedly.
	“Shit, that’s the guy from Harris State,” Kessler finally said withdrawing from Darla’s cunt and striding quickly to the intercom, his dildo shaft dripping blood.
	He pushed the talk button and said: “Riemann?”
	A crackle of static was followed by: “Yeah.”
	Kessler turned, opened the door and left the killing room.
	After the door slid shut behind Kessler, Kirkwood picked up the metal spears from the floor and took them back to the smouldering grill.
	He knew Kessler would return eventually but for now Kirkwood had the blonde big-titted pig Darla all to himself.
	He came around and stood in front of her between her upflung legs where Kessler had stood.
	A puddle of blood had formed on the floor beneath her torn smouldering
spear-burned holes.  She hung there half conscious, drooling, eyes glassy.
	For a moment Kirkwood pondered which of her ravaged openings he would slam his eager hardness into. 
	Finally, moving in decisively he plunged into the blonde bitch’s burned out asshole and put his hands around her neck to choke off her mindless babbled pleas.
	He smiled as her beautiful green eyes rose to meet his, teary and wide as 
she gasped for breath.

				____________________

	Robeson slow-fucked Karyn with up-surging thrusts sending the long
black barbed cock up her asshole as he rose, sliding it out as his knees bent
and he leaned back, firmly grasping her hips, riding the whipped woman
against the wall, making her scream and twist and howl and plead as he
sank into her and cut her all up inside.
	Her blood was like warm wine as it trickled down the insides of his thighs and dripped off her beaten cunt and puddled on the floor between her legs.
	It felt good to rip-fuck the bitch, to blood-bang ‘er.
	His body gleamed with a patina of effort-sweat, his meaty muscles working over-time.
	He’d left deep bite marks on her back, superimposed scarlet-purple half-moons that over-rode the scrawly slashes his lead-tipped lash, now curled on the floor of the cell at his feet, had painted on her.
	He dragged the studded shaft out of her slowly pausing to let her
experience the head-knob exiting the sphincter, barbs slicing through
muscle, she choke-sputter-sobbing as it finally popped free of her followed by a burst of faeces and blood.
	Riemann smiled.
	When he released her arms from the wall she tottered backward almost
falling and he had to hold her up, pressed against the cold wall,  she finally sliding to her knees groaning, bleeding and crying, crumpled in a messy heap at his feet. 	
	He yanked her by her hair, pulled her, half dragged her to the low wooden table outside the cell, the same table where a couple of days earlier Kessler had
fucked Mara, Karyn and Darla while the Asian child had been made to lick his balls and asshole.
	“Get your hands behind you and put your tits on the wood for me, woman,” he ordered curtly.
	Weakly she obeyed, kneeling beside the table and bending slightly forward to do as he asked so that her whip-streaked boobs lay on its surface.
	She saw him reach up to a cabinet on the wall near the door.
	When he came for her he had a large hammer in one hand and a
small box of nine inch nails in the other.
	“Oh God,” she cried out starting to back away. “No, oh no, please.”
	He tossed the box of nails on the table and grabbed her by her lustrous red hair to keep her from moving, to bend over her and tell her the score.
	“You’re gonna suck my cock, whore. But if you fight me, if you don’t let me nail your filthy tits to the table first like I want - then you’re gonna suck this!”
	He indicated the barbed cock-shaft still strapped to his cock.
	Karyn knew he meant it.
	“Got it?”
	She had to make a choice and make it quickly.
	The prospect of the studded, blood covered penis ripping her tongue and mouth apart was unacceptable and she knew he would not hesitate to punish her unwillingess to please him in exactly that fashion.
	Sobbing softly she nodded.
	“Good girl,” he snarled meanly releasing her hair.
	She laid her tits on the table submissively, feeling weak and dizzy, her ears buzzing hotly, she pressing her chest against the table-side, and he got the nails from the box.
	“Keep your hands behind you,” he said positioning the first long nail
up to her nippleflesh, pushing the point down into her skin as he raised 
the hammer.
	The downstroke was a sharp thud that sent the metal spike through the soft fleshy tissues of her tit and half way into the table top.
	She screeched and twisted her head to the left, facing the wall, eyes shut tightly.  Her arms almost rose up, hands reaching involuntarily, but she managed to keep them in place as she began to sob with the pain.
	He positioned the next nail on her other nipple and again swung the hammer down with a quick sharp blow.
	“YYiiiihhhhhh!” she screamed and pissed herself again, urine hot on her 
whipped thighs and calves.
	She heard him reach for more nails but did not look, keeping her face
averted, eyes closed.
	Whhummmp! Another metal spike into the first breast, slightly higher, right through the nipple and into the wood and before her scream ends:
	Whhummmpp! another nail through the other tit, right through its core, 
mashing her tit against the table and before she can push back:
	Whhummmpp! one more through that tit’s nipple, a spurt of blood
splashing the table top and a gagging groaning cry as: Whummppp! a
final nail is driven through the already nailed down left breast, also
through the core, also mashing it against the table.
	Now Robeson towers over her and he slips off the studded dildo, tosses it aside.
	He lowers himself so that his cockshaft gently caresses her dark burgundy colored hair, his balls coming up against her forehead.
	“Mmmmmm,” he moans.
	This is sweet mastery.
	Looking down he can see blood welling up, pooling around the nailed titmeat on the table.
	“Lick,” he orders dipping down further to present his balls, jerking himself off, cockshaft aimed straight up.  He feels her moist tears on his sacs as they
rub on her cheek and then her tentative tongue delineating the crack between
the two webbed orbs.
	He turns around pulling her head back by the hair straddling her face to push his asshole against her mouth.
	“Lick,” he grunts again.
	She obeys lapping at the space between his sturdy asscheeks, pushing her
tongue up against the brownish flesh.
	“Put your tongue in me,” he orders, clutching her hair.
	“Ahh yesss - right in my asshole you stinking pigwhore.”
	Crying fitfully Karyn Waters pushes her tongue up into the killer’s odorous anus. Her breasts hurt terribly, hurt even worse if she makes the slightest move and she tries to keep very still.
	Pigwhore, he has called her.  
	All her life she has been polite, straight-laced and above all scrupulously neat and clean.  Now on her knees in her own bloody urine, her tits nailed to a table, her face in a man’s crotch, her cunt and ass defiled and gashed to blood, she is hopelessly lost, her identity careening away.
	Robeson grips her by the top of her head, gathering her red hair in a clutch stepping back so that she’s open-mouthed down in front of him now, crying, spittle rolling from her lips as he puts his sausage-sized prick to her face.
	With a low grunt he begins to piss on her, taking her completely by surprise, making her jump slightly as the hot gush splashes her cheek and moves toward her open mouth.
	As her body pulls against her nailed tits she gives out a hopeless little squeal and the killer smiles broadly, enjoying her pain and humiliation.
	“What’s the matter, rich girl?”he snarls. “Don’t like the flavor?”
	She tries to turn her face away but he holds her easily and she really doesn’t try too hard.
	She’s begun to give up already, hands limp at her sides.
	“Drink me,” he says softly. “Swallow.”
	And she does, wincing with disgust but obedient, letting the acrid-smelling
urine bubble and gurgle in her mouth and finally, after it begins to overspill, burning as it trickles down her whip-torn tits, to accept it down her throat with
loud disgusting gulps.

22. Rieman and Kessler
(Monday 6:30 AM)

	Riemann had no trouble finding the Vanner warehouse.  
	When he pulled the Taurus up to the side entrance next to Bill Kirkwood’s black Chevy pickup and Kessler’s Dodge Caravan the final day of slaughter had already begun, the gray fog of dawn had started to clear.
	Mara Lane, Jessie and Ann Rowen, Lily Kan, the eight year old Asian girl Kessler had throat-slashed and throat-fucked to death, Tim and Billy Winnfried, were already history.
	Riemann was energized by the anticipation of what lay ahead.
	Four more females to be butchered. Three adult women and a ten year old girl.
	He popped the trunk open and went around to the back of the car to lift
Julie’s daughter effortlessly up into his arms.
	The naked child squirmed weakly and stared up at him groggily, disoriented, arms roped behind her, ankles bound together.  The parking area of the warehouse was out of sight from the road so Riemann did not have to worry about being seen.	
	He slung Sandy over his shoulder thoughtlessly, as if she were nothing more than baggage, slammed the trunk of the Taurus closed, and climbed the side stairs to Kessler’s office.
	At the top landing he pressed the button on the intercom by the
gray metal door.
	It took a couple of minutes for a voice to crackle through the speaker.
	“Riemann?” it asked.
	“Yeah.”
	Sandy whimpered weakly.
	Then there was a buzz as the electronic lock was released.
	Riemann pushed the door open and entered the warehouse office where
two years earlier the luckless teenager Sheila had been ‘auditioned’ by Kessler.
	Kessler’s desk, a classic old mahogany piece was now bare except for an empty glass ashtray.  There were louvered doors to a closet on the wall behind the desk and an old gray vynl couch rested up against the front wall by the single window which looked out on the parking lot;  an upholstered chair, also gray, opposed it on the adjacent window-less wall.
	Riemann bent down to let Sandy slide off his shoulder and he stretched her out on top of the desk.  She lay motionless, her chestnut-brown eyes spacey, staring up at the ceiling. There were dark red strangle marks on her neck from the ropes that had been used on her and bruises on her arms, shoulders and thighs where Riemann’s strong hands had gripped her during the soul-less rape in front of her dying father.  The tiny cut he’d put on her mons had already dried and scabbed. The strip of duct tape around her pretty face disfigured her slightly and compressed the skin of her flushed cheeks.  But the worst damage of all had been done to the child’s mind. In a matter of hours she had been forced to have incestuous sex with her brother and she’d been hung upside down by her ankles to see him raped before her dying father. She’d been neck-hung to watch the long slow butchery-ordeal of her helplessly bound sibling in the bathroom and finally she’d been raped and choked nearly to extinction as her daddy expired grossly on his bloody tarp-covered bed.  
	Then she had been plunged into the dark confinement of the car’s trunk, naked, cold, unable to move or speak for nearly an hour. It was not surprising that she had retreated into a semi-catatonic state.
	The warped destruction of the child’s body and spirit plainly excited the psychotic killer that now stood over her.  He studied her, drank her in with his eyes, as he stepped out of his socks and shoes and stripped his clothes off slowly tossing them on the vynl couch.  Sandy Winnfried was his artwork and he was about to share her with the one man he was sure would appreciate it the most.
	Riemann heard the metallic tumble of the lock behind him and he turned to see Mike Kessler enter the office.  The man was naked. Kessler’s eyes were slitted and his cock was sheathed in a metal-spiked, black leather shaft smeared with blood. Riemann knew Kessler had been in the middle of something interesting. 
	Before Kessler closed the door Riemann caught a glimpse of the warehouse staircase and the shadowy interior of the large building.
	Kessler glanced down at the little girl on his desk and back up at Riemann.
	“Hmmm - very nice,” Kessler said. Then: “We finally meet.”
	Both nude bitch-killers grinned malevolently and shook hands.
	Kessler’s grip was firm and steady.  Riemann could sense the man’s power in it.
	“Julie’s daughter?” Kessler asked as his eyes trailed back to the pretty duct-tape-gagged child on the desk.
	“Yeah,” Riemann asserted.  He towered slightly over Kessler but both men were very well built and would have made worthy opponents in any kind of physical contest.
	“Any trouble?” Kessler asked.
	“None whatsoever.”
	“The plan is still to to take the whore out for a spin, if that’s still cool with you.”
	“Sure, if you don’t think it might be too dangerous.”
	“It won’t be dangerous at all. She’s completely broken. In any case, we’ll leave the little one here with my men for insurance.”
	“Well, I was thinking more in terms that someone might see her.  I mean she’s been reported missing, right?”
	“Yeah. But what fun would any of this be if there wasn’t a little danger in it?”
	Kessler’s hand reached out to touch Sandy’s bare thigh.
	The child did not respond.
	Riemann smiled.  He knew Kessler was right.  There would be some measure of risk in what they’d planned. But that only made it more attractive.
	As Kessler spoke to Riemann his hand moved up the child’s soft warm body to her face.  His long fingers traced Sandy’s smooth cheek and her forehead moving gently over her eyebrows.
	“As I mentioned, I have an excellent location about three miles from here,” he said. “For afterwards...A small private lake. I bought it and the land around it earlier this year. It’s extremely secluded, fenced off.  We can work there later this afternoon uninterrupted.”
	“Work,” Riemann chuckled. “Right. I like the way you use that word.”
	He could see that Kessler’s cock inside the barbed sheath was rising to full erection.  He knew that Kessler was thinking ahead to what both men had planned for Julie and her daughter.
	He wondered what the killer had been up to before his arrival.  He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy toward the other man.  While Riemann had been in prison stewing for years, Kessler had been leading the kind of life most bitch-haters only dreamed about, and, incredibly, drawing a sizable profit from it. Riemann knew instinctively that he and Kessler would get along exceedingly well.  After all, they shared the same twisted psychotic interests.
	“Like I told you on the phone, your idea is perfect,” Riemann remarked. He watched Kessler’s hands moving over Sandy’s small body feeling his own cock begin to respond.  “Fuckin’ perfect.”
	He knew Kessler wouldn’t disappoint him.
	He knew that the locale the killer had chosen for the afternoon events would be a cunt-hair short of heaven.  
	Both men were seriously aroused and now wanted and needed to fuck Julie’s daughter very badly.
	“May I?” Kessler asked his hand moving down to the ropes that held
Sandy’s ankles together.
	“Be my guest,” Riemann replied.  There was no reason to rush now. The long hours of the slaughter orgy stretched ahead.  Riemann wondered if Kessler was going to use the dangerous dildo on Sandy. The possibility of the child being mortally wounded might spoil their previous plans but it would still be fascinating to watch.
	Kessler slowly undid the knots and unwound the rope from Sandy’s ankles.
	“I see you’ve already worked on her,” he told Riemann with sly admiration, a wicked smile on his moist lips, his fingers prying open the inflamed lips of the little girl’s chastised sex-slit. He leaned down slowly to lick the child’s hairless pubis and her cute little cooze. Gently he pulled her toward him, gripping both her legs just below her knees, dragging her across the desk and spreading her open, lifting her limbs up off the surface until her pussy was poised right below the tip of his spiked leather cockhead on the edge of the mahogany slab.
	Riemann breathed deeply. 
	Kessler looked down at her chubby bare mons and saw the small cut-scar Riemann’s knife had left there. .  Kessler was amazed that Riemann had exhibited such restraint. Kessler doubted that he would have been able to hold back under the same circumstances.  He admired Riemann’s power of self-control. In Riemann’s place he might have sliced the little bitch up badly and probably killed her. Such restraint was exactly the quality a merciless bitch-killer needed for the kind of prolonged sexual destruction Kessler enjoyed pursuing with his victims.
	Riemann began to stroke himself to fullness as he watched, curious as to whether Kessler would now use the lethal weapon strapped to his cock on Sandy.
	As if in answer to Riemann’s unspoken question Kessler unbuckled the leather strap which wrapped around his waist and which held the barbed dildo-sheath in place.
	“Don’t want to kill the little pup just yet,” he said softly. “What I mean is... I do - but I don’t...”
	Riemann smiled. He knew it was difficult for Kessler to keep his demonic urges in check.  Riemann knew from experience just how difficult that could be.
	“I know exactly what you’re talking about,” he replied.
	Kessler placed the sheath on the desk next to the naked child in the empty glass ashtray then pressed the tip of his now sleek bare upward-arched penis against her small inflamed slit. After the confinement of the barbed dildo the contact with the young girl’s tender cunt-skin was unexpectedly arousing.  Lifting and pushing her thighs back he eased forward into Sandy as Riemann watched.
	“Mmmm,” the killer groaned as his prick slid almost half-way into the little girl’s raped pussyhole. “Yessss - You’ve opened her up nicely.”
	Her eyes just stared up at her attacker then at the ceiling above expressionlessly, pupils dilated.
	“Nice, isn’t she?” Riemann asked.
	“Shit, yeaahh,” Kessler asserted.  He spread his legs apart and slow-pumped his hips thrusting in and out of the little girl’s blood-red cunthole, not penetrating
fully, enjoying the feel of her tight vulva.
	Sandy lay silent and motionless as Kessler used her and her unresponsive state delighted the depraved killer.  Her brown eyes continued to stare vacantly at the ceiling.
	Looking down, Kessler noticed a drop of blood had trickled into the ashtray from the barbed dildo-sheath. Darla Bessinger’s blood.  Kessler wondered what Kirkwood was doing now to the big-titted blonde downstairs in the killing room.  He hoped Bill wouldn’t go too far. The plan was to save the blonde and the redhead to accompany Julie for the final climactic destruction that night and he hoped Kirkwood and Robeson could stick to the plan.  
	Riemann reached out and stripped off the duct tape around the child’s mouth.  There was no reason to keep her silenced any longer.  He pushed his thumb into the warmth of her half-open lips. Instinctively she sucked on his finger, her eyes still empty and fixated.
	After a few moments he withdrew his hand and she lay there open-mouthed and drooling, lips still pursed and sucking like an infant’s, eyes vacant as Kessler now fucked her a bit faster, gripping her thighs to push deeper into her.
	“Tell me what you did at the Winnfried house,” Kessler grunted staring down at the mind-blown child on the desk as he slid in and out of her, his muscular thighs coming in brief contact now and then with the wood side-panel. He was eager to hear the particulars of the trauma which had so affected the little bitch.
	“It was real nice,” Riemann responded dreamily.
	He watched the other man slow-fuck Sandy. 
	“I bet,” Kessler responded.
	Riemann stroked himself and cupped his balls as he spoke.
	“I took the scumbag down first.”
	“Tim?”
	“Yeah.  Tied him up. Fucked him up the ass and shot him in the legs on the bed. No noise. Silencer on the gun.”
	“Nice...” Kessler nodded.  The pace of his thrusts quickening noticeably.
	He knew Riemann had gone in well prepared.
	“I made this one suck her brother off and play with his balls - stick her little finger in his asshole - then I raped little Billy in front of her and his dad.”
	“Did the father beg - did he cry?”
	“Yeah. Just like a woman.”
	“Hmm,” Kessler replied.  He closed his eyes and his head rocked back as his hips thrust rhythmically.
	“Then I took the children in the bathroom,” Riemann said softly.
	“Things got bloody,” Kessler guessed.
	“Very.”
	“You did the boy?”
	Riemann worked himself as the memory of Billy’s slaughter played in his head.
	“Oh yeahh. I cut him - fucked him - stabbed him - strangled him -”
	“Way to go,” Kessler snarled as he now rammed into little Sandy’s impossibly tight cooze.
	“The only way to go,” Riemann agreed. “The little fuck was super-tight - Mmmm - First time I’ve done a little boy.  Although I have had young stuff...”
	Riemann remembered the slaughter of the black whore in prison and the
gruesome fucking of her aborted fetus with a sick sneer.
	“I cut his balls and his dick off him.”
	“Shit,” Kessler growled as he plunged into Sandy’s cunt, his hands
gripping her small thighs fiercely leaving bruises just below those Riemann had already left on her.
	“I wanted to cut Winnfried’s cock and balls off too but didn’t get around to it.”
	“Ahhh, too bad -” Kessler commented, his jaw fixed in deep concentration as he fucked his victim. “Pity.”
	The child bounced against the desk, her bound hands under her, her 
body moving involuntarily in response to the big man’s thrusts.
	Kessler had never killed a boy but he imagined a small youth like Billy Winnfried, a sweet twelve year old, was probably as nice a kill as any sexual predator could ever want.  He’d never raped a man either but the idea of a bound male bleeding and begging for his life and for his children’s lives attracted him.  If he had been there he probably would have castrated the father before even fucking him.  It would have been inevitable.  He thought about it. Thought about his long knife ripping through the screaming man’s balls, gouging out his genitals. The visualization made him thrust into the little girl hard and deep.
	“After I finished with the boy,” Riemann continued. “I took this one back to her father’s room and raped her in front of him,” Riemann continued.
	“He died watching me do her.”
	The killer’s words almost drove Kessler past the point of no return as he
slammed in and out of the catatonic child on the desk.  The idea of Tim Winnfried dying in horrible pain after being ass-fucked and shot on his own bed, watching his young daughter desecrated before him, perhaps knowing that his boy was already dead gave Kessler a keen and heady sensation of sadistic power. What Riemann had done at the Winnfried house was unspeakably inhuman and therefore most arousing. Kessler knew he would have to stop fucking the little girl Riemann had brought him or he would empty himself in her and rob himself of a much fiercer and enjoyable orgasm later, with the mother, when things really got going.  Experience had taught him that in these long drawn out slaughter orgies pacing was crucial.
	Observing the kind of restraint he had earlier admired in Riemann, Kessler slid out of Sandy and stepped back.
	Riemann took over, seizing the child’s legs by the ankles and
pushing his achingly erect member into the oozing tight slit Kessler had left him.
	“Your turn to talk,” Riemann grunted as he began to fuck Sandy.  The little girl’s head slid to one side and though the sucking motion of her mouth had ceased her saliva continued to ooze from her lips and pool on  the desk around her neck. “Tell me more about your operation here.”
	Kessler masturbated slowly, gloatingly as he watched the tall slender
agressor take his place on the end of the desk between the child’s legs. He was impressed by the red and green tattoo of the dragon on the man’s wide rippling back. 
	Riemann was certainly no one to mess with. 
	Kessler was now convinced he’d found a formidable colleague.
	“Every three months or so we do five or six bitches,” Kessler began.
	“Mmmm.”
	“We film some gang-bang videos, over the counter stuff. Then we send the boys home and do the serious shit.”
	“The ones like I was shown up at Harris.”
	“Yeah.”
	“The ones Warden Harper liked.”
	“Right again.”
	“Bloody Snuff One?”
	“That was the first.”
	Slowly, as he listened, Riemann fucked his ten year old victim.  He was struck by how much she looked like Julie whom he remembered from the jail visit so many years ago.
	“The first...and how many are there now?” he asked.
	“This will make number four.”
	“Will the little slut’s mom be in it?”
	“She already is. We shot some great gang-bang and torture last night.”
	Sandy’s eyes suddenly fluttered and she whimpered:
	“Mm - mommie - muhhmm?”
	Kessler smiled.
	“Looks like our little visitor’s coming around,” he sneered.
	“”Must’ve heard momma’s name - is that right?” Riemann asked pushing his stiff punishing cock deep as he gripped Sandy’s legs. “Did you hear us 
talk about your momma?”
	“Muh! Muh! Muh!” the girl sobbed, her thighs tensing in Riemann’s hands.
	“Fucking little whore,” Kessler growled climbing on to the desk.
	He wanted to feel the child’s wet babbling little mouth on his balls.
	Riemann watched Kessler crouch over Sandy’s face, the killer’s powerful naked thighs framing her, his strong feet arched on either side of her head stepping on her brown hair and keeping her from turning away, his big strong hand gripping and stroking his thick-veined hard-on.
	It looked almost as though Kessler was gonna shit right on the little bitch.
	“Muh! Muh! Muh!” the child kept repeating desperately, her eyes wide and wild, as Kessler lowered his balls on to her lips.
	“Ghmmm! MMggghh! Mhuggmm!”
	Kessler smiled as the vibrations of the child’s cries teased his genitals which now effectively pressed down into the moist pink mouth below him.  The wooden desk creaked under his weight. In front of him Riemann thrust manmeat in and out of Sandy’s now bleeding cunthole. The ten year old’s pussy  clamped on the killer’s penetrating flesh-shaft deliciously and her legs kicked and twitched in his grip.
	“Yeahhh,” Riemann snarled. “Sit on her face. Stifle the little fuck.”
	“Ghh! Ghmmm! Gh-ggMH-UGGHMM!” Sandy screeched, her high-pitched voice muffled under Kessler’s balls.  The killer bore down on the child wiping his asshole on her nose and lips as she gurgled and gasped and squealed, he jerking off as he rode her looking down to see Riemann’s huge cock slamming into her, both men using the little slut well, ten year old girl-child savagely and inhumanly raped on the wooden desk between the two killers.
	Riemann  plunged greedily into his victim exalted by the knowledge that Julie was nearby, that Kessler had already broken her down, that soon he would be face to face with the traitorous cunt whose testimony had put him away sixteen years before.  The shared rape of Julie’s lovely daughter was taking him to an intense new plateau of payback pleasure and he wasn’t sure how long he could go on without shooting off in the little slut’s bleeding gash.
	“Uhh -” he grunted riding on the edge of orgasm. “Goddamn - if we’re
gonna do this now - ahh - it would be nice to make mommie watch.”
	Kessler ground his balls against Sandy’s cheeks and eyes looking down
between his cocked thighs at the little pink wet hole of her mouth gasping for air and pleading:
	“Muhhmmm! Muhhhmmm!”
	“Ahh -” Kessler gasped rocking on his heels.  He too was a heartbeat away from a mind-shattering shoot-off. “You’re right - uhh - I think mommie would
be blown away - Especially when you tell her what you’ve done to baby boy and daddykins -”
	“- mmhh - yeahh - that will be nice...”
	Kessler now rose slowly, somewhat reluctantly, off Sandy’s face and stepped down from the desk.
	The killer picked up the blood-smeared barbed leather sheath which lay in the ashtray and began strapping it back on.
	He smiled as he watched Riemann continue to slow-fuck the sobbing child who now looked from one man to the other.
	“Tell you what,” he told Riemann. “I’ve got some business to finish downstairs.  Why don’t you go ahead and take the child to her momma. I’ll join you in about an hour or so.”
	“Muhhmm! Momma! Mommaaaahhh!” Sandy sobbed desperately as
Riemann slid back to pull his long hard cock out of the child, rubbing circles with its tip on her raped twat-hole.  He reached down and picked her up slinging her over his shoulder as before.
	“Just show me the way,” he told Kessler.
	The other man started to head for the door then changed his mind.
	“Wait - one last little detail,” he muttered, going to the desk and opening the top drawer.
	He had already finished strapping on the killing dildo and it cleaved the air as he moved.
	“Muhhmmm - muhhmmm -” Sandy groaned against Riemann’s back. He felt the warmth of her breath on his bare skin, her soft hair grazing his buttocks, a trickle of her pussy blood spilling on his shoulder, dribbling down over his chest, circling his stiff erect nipple.
	Riemann watched Kessler take what seemed to be a small black cloth from the desk.  Two cords dangled from it and Riemann could see it was made of silk. 
	Kessler fitted it over Sandy’s head and pulled on the cords to knot them together as he spoke.
	“ - they say God’s in the details.”
	It was a hood, the same hood her mother had worn on her ride to the warehouse four days before. The child could smell her mother’s perfume on it. It was the first thing she could hold on to after the long hours of horror she’d endured. PassionGarden,  the fragrance was called.  Sandy didn’t know that but she remembered the pretty bottle, with tiny flowers all over the label in momma’s bathroom.
	“Muhhhmmmm! Muhhhmmm!” she moaned hysterically, her bound arms
flexing, her little feet kicking against Riemann’s strong abdomen.
	“Don’t worry, sweetie-pie,” Kessler told her as he moved toward the door with Riemann in tow.
	“You’re gonna see your momma real soon.”
	Both men left the office and entered the warehouse.
	Together they moved into the shadows.

23. Julie Proclaims Her Love
(Monday 7 AM)

	It has come to this, Julie.
	There you stand against the post, bent over, bent in half, legs way wide, the back of your head against the hard wood, up on your toes, your arms roped
to hooks up above you on the post holding you strictly, your legs to a spreader bar, ankles tightly leather cuffed, rope around your neck.
	And you look at the world upside down, your face framed in the wide inverted V of your strong whipped thighs. 
	Your cunt bleeds.
	The floor is the ceiling, the ceiling the floor.
	The dead stripper is a bloody mess shoved into a corner against the wall. A scattered red-streaked trail leads to her, a bloodtrail created as she was hauled away.
	The killers handled her as if she was nothing more than trash.  And maybe that’s all she was ultimately, Julie, don’t you think? Pretty, petty trash. Worthless tramp. Used-up female meat.
	Maybe that’s all you are too.
	Bleeding cuntmeat.
	Trash.
	Because when Kessler told you to kneel, hands behind you, you did so.
	Didn’t you?
	You slid down before him.
	There were no ropes, no cuffs, no restraints on you then.
	When Robeson clamped the heavy lead balls that dangled on short chains from your pierced, bruised, swollen nipples and the sharp crushing pain coursed through you you did not fight it.
	You welcomed it, accepted it.
	After all, you had sucked the cool water from the dead stripper’s mouth and from her pierced eye-socket, sunk to subhuman levels, and deserved whatever was coming to you.
	And when they took the wooden dowels and stood on either side of you you kept your hands behind you, kept them there as the sharp whistling blows came flying down on you, hot and sharp, making you jerk and jump.
	They had put their hoods back on and the cameras were rolling.
	You were the center of attention again, the star of the show, submissive, kneeling, giving out short yelps as the men struck you with their long rods.
	The metal balls swung back and forth like pendulums pulling at your sore nipples and the rods found your shoulders, your chest, your thighs, and finally the upper half of your boobs to strike viciously and maddeningly at the already pierced, already bruised, already stretched and aching mammary meat.
	The killers said nothing as they punished you but you could see them masturbating and you knew you were pleasing them.  And you knew the video-image of you now being recorded would give hundreds and maybe thousands of other unknown men sick pleasure as they watched you hurt, humiliated and defeated: a broken female fuck doll.
	“Stand up,” Kessler ordered.
	For a moment there was respite from the slicing blows.
	The men waited on you as you got to your feet with aching effort.
	“Keep your hands behind you and spread your legs wide, we’re gonna beat your cunt.”
	You gave out a soft anguished moan in response to the harsh words.
	Only briefly your big brown eyes looked up into Kessler’s face then quickly darted down to the floor.
	They let you stand there for a brief pause, allowing you to savor the terrible anticipation of pain that would soon follow.
	“What are you?” Kessler asked softly.
	Robeson tapped his rod lightly against his hand waiting.
	Kessler held his, sliding it in and out of his cupped palm suggestively.
	“What are you? Because you’re certainly not a human being.”
	Your voice was weak when you replied, so weak it was almost the voice of a child being reprimanded by an angy adult, a little girl who has been caught stealing from the cookie jar and now must tell the truth.
	“A worthless slave, Master. I am meat. I am dirt.  I am a hole.”
	“Good. Who owns you?”
	Robeson continued to tap his rod against his hand, eager to begin using it.
	What other answer was there to Kessler’s question, Julie? What other possible answer but the one your Master had taught you over the last few days, the one that you finally had come to understand as essential truth:
	“You own me, Master. You and your men - all men. You own my body. You own my blood -”
	 Your voice rose in pitch and quavered emotionally as you finished:
	“ - You own my soul. You own my life.”
	“Yeahh,” Robeson whispered biting his lip. “You got it right, fuckface.”
	Then the waiting ended and the rods swished and whapped down across your lower belly and pussy mound, each man taking his turn to wound you, to cut you down, one hit at a time, first one then the other, like sculptors chiseling out a slab of promising marble, shaping your agony.
	Aughh! - you cried with each strike gasping for breath between each slash.
	Whapp! - Uuwwhh! 
	Slasshhh! - Gh-owwhh! - jumping to it, your head twisting side to side.
	Whhisshh! - Ahhiiiii!
	The metal balls chain-clamped to your tits swung crazily out of sync with each other, smacked together. Your body sprang responsively to each hit fighting and bucking the pain and as the men hit harder, your hips twitched and your feet slipped on the blood-wet floor where Mara Lane had died.
	“Don’t fall, whore!” Kessler hissed.  “ Don’t you fuckin’ fall! Just take it - take it!”
	And you took it for them, sobbing, hanging your head as both of them
cane-whipped your cunt until it was red and blue streaked, swollen, pulpy and tender like some exotic tropical fruit from the beating -
	Sllisshh! - Ah-aawwwhh!
	Whhhappp! - Uugwwhh!	
	Thudd! - Nnnnnnn!
	Whackk! - Aaaoowwhh!
 - the men bending, raising the wood rods high to bring them slashing on your bleeding labia, and you stood your ground as well as you could, tilting your head back to groan and scream as the pain overwhelmed you and your body quivered, arching your hips outward to receive the burning fuck-blows you deserved,  your upper body swaying, twisting, your legs trembling as the thud, thud, thud of the punishing rods went on and on and on.
	Then they’d stopped suddenly moving up against you to touch your
welted puss, to rub your moist bloody sex-slit, to lick your sweaty face and kiss you on your mouth as your heart raced, first Robeson then Kessler then Robeson again, back and forth while you continued to stand there, spread-legged, hands behind you, heavy lead hanging from your clamped nipples hoping they would throw you on the bed and fuck you.  They thrust their tongues into your lips and held your head, fingered your burning cooze-hole and choked you and finally spat on your face and in your mouth and made you swallow their nasty salty phlegm.
	Then Robeson thought of tying you in the bent-over position, your head looking back between your wide-bound legs, while Kessler watched, drinking again from the cool bottle of water, hooded, smiling, the video-cams above whirring, capturing every detail, every nuance of your long drawn out take down for the countless men who would enjoy you long after your bones had turned to white meaningless dust.
	Dirt, you’d said. Dirt, Julie. That’s all you are. Something men wipe off the bottom of their shoes.
	Trash.
	When Robeson released the clamps from which the heavy metal balls had hung, blood rushed painfully back into your nipple-flesh and you screamed with
all the energy you could muster, screamed your throat raw.
	The men laughed, spit on your bleeding cunt and turned away to leave the killing room.
	Look at you.
	Alone now. Crying.
	You’re nothing. Less than nothing. A ball-gagged slut with her beaten cunt up in the air, fuck-bait, drooling, gasping, your neck choked by the rope that holds your head to the post, wordless, will-less, with nothing to say for yourself and no one to defend you, no one to save you from this down-spiraling destruction.
	This is what it has come to, Julie, as you wait, hearing faintly the screams of other female victims somewhere in the warehouse, distant, muffled.
	Silence.
	Then again, shrill female agony and voices.
	Then silence, a threatening claustrophobic silence.
	Your legs are stiff and sore.  A drop of blood mixed with manspit oozes off your aching swollen cunt and spatters on the black steel spreader bar.  Another drop hits the floor between your arched feet.  Long painful moments pass.  You can look down and see your beaten, clamp-bruised paps, marred with purple bruises and pierce-points. Your jaw, wide with the rubber ball in your mouth, is numb from the stretching.  You push your tongue against the gag, bite it, close your eyes and grunt in desperation.  And when you open your eyes again the world is still there, upside down, the killing room, the dead stripper lying in a broken heap against the wall, the dirty blood-streaked floor, your dirty, beaten, blood-dripping, swollen, stinking cunt-mound.
	More silence.
	More waiting.
	And now your journey is coming to an end, the journey you started sixteen years before, when you and Larissa left the Headless Horseman, when the Pacer’s engine died and you walked into the night on Camille road, now - right at this moment, the journey is coming full cycle, the door of the killing room sliding open with a creak, the tall figure standing there, the child slung over his shoulder.
	...he comes into the light in the center of the room, naked, the diminutive black-silk-hooded girl-child draped over his shoulder.
	You don’t recognize him yet, but something about his face is familiar.
	He is so tall, mean faced, short-cropped hair.
	He is another of Kessler’s men - but no, this one is different, now
letting the child slide down off his shoulder to the floor, a little girl, with a black hood over her head, a red cut-line across her little pussy mound, hands bound behind her.
	She stands uncertainly in your upside down world,  trickles of blood
running down the inside of her little thighs from her hairless slit.  Another hapless victim of Kessler’s men.
	“Hello, Julie,” the upside down giant says.
	After sixteen years you recognize the voice.
	You can feel it inside your sore cunt.
	Phillip Riemann. Larissa’s killer.
	“Ggghh!” you grunt, eyes wide.
	Kessler was telling the truth after all and this is no fantasy, no hazy dream.
	“I’ve brought you a surprise.”
	He reaches out and slowly pulls the drawstrings open on the neck of the hood the little girl is wearing.
	Dramatically, like a magician about to deliver the goods, he lifts it from her head and tosses it aside.
	You blink twice, disbelievingly.
	It’s Sandy.
	“Nnn-NNGGGHH!” you shout suddenly fighting the ropes that hold your
arms to the sides of the post hung up to the steel hooks.  Your legs kick but
the weight of your body shifting nearly strangles you as the rope tears into
your throat and you stop.
	Riemann is smiling and looking at you, enjoying your horror.
	“That’s right, Julie - its your sweet baby daughter,” he tells you calmly.
	“Muhhmmaa!” Sandy cries out, starting to move toward you but held
in check by Riemann’s huge hand on her tiny shoulder. She’s completely disoriented and her eyes are red from crying.
	“And what a nice fuck she is, I’ve gotta tell you.”
	His words are worse than any wound Kessler or his men have inflicted on you in the last few days. Your eyes dart back and forth from Sandy to him and back still trying to adjust - your sad, mournful, victimized, doe-like eyes.
	“I know, I know - its hard to understand isn’t it? I mean - I’m supposed to be in jail, right?  That jury gave me thirty years with no parole, didn’t they? Sure they did.  You were there. You remember.”
	He has begun to walk toward you pushing Sandy ahead of him.
	“Muhhmmy - muhhmmmy -” she sobs.
	Your daughter, your sweet baby child that came into the world on a
golden autumn day, leaves swirling as Tim drove you to Seabrook Medical Center.  She was a lovely baby at seven pounds, healthy, glowing.
	“I’m supposed to be in jail but guess what, Julie? I’m right - here.”
	Now he looms over you and your daughter is here too, in the killing room with you, her little bare feet stepping in Mara Lane’s blood, in your blood.
	Riemann reaches out and his hand touches your beaten pussy.
	Waves of pain and terror rush through you.
	“Mmmm - That’s so nice,” he says slowly, slurringly. “These guys have done some real nice work on you, Julie.”
	He strokes himself silently.
	Sandy is crying fitfully.
	“Kessler and his boys have been hard at work.”
	“Lick your momma, Sandy,” he tells the child. His voice is solemn, emotionless. Just as you remember it. “Lick her here,” he says spreading
the bruised lips of your swollen cunt for the child. “ - right in here.”
	Sandy’s wailing peters out as the killer gently cups the back of her
small head and pushes her forward.  She’s short enough that she doesn’t even have to bend down.  Her face is level with your wet beaten sex-slit.
	As she licks you, lovingly, Riemann unties her hands, letting the loop of used-up rope fall to the floor.
	His fingers begin to stroke your sore clitoris just as they did that day
so long ago at Harris penitentiary and then you feel Sandy’s tiny hands on your
whipped buttocks as she leans forward and her breath then her tongue gingerly on your raw, caned cuntmeat.
	Your daughter licks you innocently while Riemann works your clit pressing it, rubbing it between thumb and index finger.
	No one else has ever touched you the way Larissa’s killer touches you.
	There have been other hands on you, hard and calloused hands, eager hands, but no one else ever has taken you where He takes you and no one else ever will.
	“Oh yes, Julie,” Riemann tells you. His voice betrays the dark pleasure you know he feels at having your own daughter involved in this hideous depravity.
	“Sandy’s such a good little fuck bunny...and Billy too...was, I mean.”
	You grunt and try to look up at him but Sandy’s body is in the way. You see the rope marks around her neck, the bruises on her thighs and her red swollen vulva and you know everything he is telling you is true.  You know Riemann does not lie.  You wonder if he has brought Billy here too - and Tim? Are they in the warehouse? Are they in the hands of Kessler’s men?
	“Yeah,” Riemann continued, his hand slow-stroking your pussy, just like that day so long ago, his hand guiding Sandy’s head so that her tongue grazes your beaten pussy-lips up and down.
	Against all logic, against all decency you feel a slow pulsing heat rising up, confusing you.
	“I fucked them both. I fucked Tim too - before I killed them.”
	“G-Ghhhh!” you whine fighting the ropes, going up on your toes.  There is no getting your mind around this.  You start to sob brokenly, your knees sagging but you are held up by the neck rope and by your arms and Sandy’s tongue is
making little shivers run up and down your thighs.
	Riemann is in deep sadistic rut as he destroys any last rays of hope and decency you might have had.
	“Billy too.  Fucked ‘im up the ass and cut ‘im to shreds, right Sandy?”
	The child sobs unitelligibly, both females now weeping.
	“Sandy watched me do her brother in the bathroom - mmmm we had quite a party at the Winnfried house last night. And this morning I brought your
baby girl back here to be with you - only Kessler and I had a little fun with her first. You don’t mind do you? Of course not. Why should you mind? You’re nothing but a stinking whore. I figured that out a long time ago.”
	Riemann pushes Sandy’s face against your asshole. The child makes
choked sounds and shuts her eyes tightly.
	“Lick her there, you little pig - that’s it - now put your fingers in it - just like you did with Billy - C’mon, you know how to do it - That’s it - Good
girl - Now move, move aside but stay next to me. I’m going to fuck your mom and I want you to lick my peepee while it goes in and out of her, ok?”
	Sandy nods quietly.  It is unthinkable to go against the dragon-man’s wishes and demands. The time for struggle has long ago passed.
	Images of your daughter come and go, Julie,  as you feel her little fingers
pushing into your raped asshole.  In your mind you see Billy playing with her
by the public pool.  You see them playing in the yard with Tim. Opening
gifts at Christmas. On Santa’s lap in the mall. A swirl of images and then
your mind trips in and out - you remember the nightmare creature chasing
them through the woods - the nightmare soldiers shooting Sandy - Ann Rowen sobbing softly, calling out to her sister in the refrigerated chamber. “Jessie? - Jessie are you there?”
	And then Riemann steps up behind you and you see him push his cock up against your butthole. Another drop of blood drips from your caned sexmeat as he slides into you pushing you even further up on your toes, pushing the back of your skull hard against the wood as he puts his weight into you.
	“Uhhnn - If that farmer hadn’t found Larissa you probably would have never said shit - am I right?”
	You sob brokenly for your dead boy and your dead husband and for
the devastating humiliation your little girl is now forced to watch.
	Riemann grunts with masculine pleasure as he pushes his big cock
to the hilt in your asshole, right up to his balls, hilting in you, gripping your hips.
	“Yeahh, pig.  I’m right. You and I know just exactly who Julie really is.”
	He begins to slide in and out of you.
	“You might have fooled a lot of people, getting married to that jerk and moving to the suburbs and having kids - But you and I know what really
makes you tick, don’t we - Don’t we, slut? Yes, we do. - Lick me, Sandy - Mmm
yes - yes - all the way down to my balls. Ohh yeahh - get under me - down there between my legs - lick, c’mon, lick my balls, girl - shit, Julie, what a sweet little mouth she has - ahhhh - Maybe we should try momma’s mouth too, whatta you think, Sandy? Hm? Maybe momma can show you how to please a man. I’m sure she knows how after the last couple of days here.”
	He reaches down, unbuckles the gag-strap, ungags you.
	“Agh - mmgg -” you groan drooling. “Pleeease - ngg -”
	“Shut the fuck up and suck me, woman,” he snarls, pushing Sandy out of the way and shoving up against your bound legs his long fleshshaft now poised over your lips as he dips down to feed you his shit-smeared prick.
	“Filthy fucking cow,” he growls as you take him. “That’s it. Show your
daughter what a whore’s mouth is for - uhhh - goddamn you - You should
have seen what I did to your son - mmhh - it took a while - cut the little
fuck to bits - fucked him - ahhh - strangled him - practically fucking bathed in his guts.  But I don’t want you to take my word for it.  Kessler and I are gonna take you to your house later so you can see for yourself - uhnhh! Lick my balls, Sandy - Get under me, now! Yeah - yeah - while your momma sucks me you lick my balls - goddamn - this is fucking heaven - Yeah, we’re gonna take you back home,
Julie, so you can get the whole picture - ahhh - and we’re gonna leave
Sandy here so she can get better acquainted with Kessler’s men - Don’t stop sucking me, whore! Or I’ll kill both of you right now! That’s better. Lick,
Sandy. Press your tongue into me. Yeah. Now lick my asshole. Ahh yeahh, yeahh! Goddamn filthy stinking sluts -”
	His organ is long and fat and it fills you and it chokes you.
	You watch Sandy right in front of you inches away, her sweet little
face under his big swinging genitals working him obediently, following his instructions with docile subservience.  What can you tell her with your eyes?
That you love her? That you’re sorry?  And what does she tell you with hers.
That she’s afraid? That she needs you? You can only imagine the horror she
has been forced to witness, and this now, this degrading inhuman debasement.
And you can’t save her. How can you when you can’t even save yourself? How, when you couldn’t save Larissa? When in fact, as Riemann has reminded you, you were not even going to tell the police about your missing friend.
	Sandy deserved a better mother than you.
	For years you thought you’d shelter and shield her from the world.
	Now the world has crashed through the doors. It has come to claim both of you.
	Now she will know only cold heartless men who will tear both of you to pieces and enjoy it limitlessly.
	And that is all because of you. Because of you, Julie. Because you are dirt. You are worthless.  You are human female garbage.
	Trash.
	You can’t bear the idea that Sandy will be left here in the warehouse with Robeson and Kirkwood. But you know you are powerless to stop it from happening.
	Utterly powerless.
	Riemann rises, pulling out of your mouth, tugging Sandy by her hair to follow as he stuffs his fleshrod into your bleeding aching cunthole.
	“Ahhrgghhhh!” you scream as he fills you pitilessly and slam-thrusts you into the post.
	“Mommieeeeee!” Sandy screams clutching her little hands together as she watches Riemann violently rape you now. “Pleeease don’t hurt my mommieee!”
	“Hurt her?! Unhhh! Shit! I’m not hurting her. She loves it - Don’t you, Julie? Huh? Don’t you? Come on tell her how much you love what I’m doing to you?”
	“Agghh -” you grunt, gasping for air, your face flushed dark red.
	“Please - uggg - please -”
	“Yeahh you know you fucking love it - unnhh! - you stinking piece of shit! You know you wanted to come with Hutch and Parks and me that night when we took Larissa down, didn’t you? Come on - say it. You wanted it bad.”
	“Ahg - ohh - don’t hurt Sandy - please -”
	“You were dying for it then. That’s why you were gonna keep it a secret, isn’t it?  And you’ve been dying it for it ever since,  your whole stinking worthless fucking life - only you’ve never had the courage to admit it to yourself.”
	Riemann bangs you with power-thrusts of his strong hips.  He hilts
his prick in you and you feel yourself shuddering and trembling near orgasm
even now, even as you know your boy and your husband are dead, even with your baby girl watching.
	“Please,” you gasp. “Oh god please kill me - please kill me - kill me - kill me - kill me -”
	“No, pig. Not yet. We have a long way to go yet. Besides -” he says slowly pulling his cock out of you. “I haven’t fucked Sandy up the ass yet.”
	He turns to your daughter who is sobbing, backing away from him.
	“Where do you think you’re going?” he growls angrily.
	He reaches out, grabs her by her hair and punches her in the stomach.
	It has come to this Julie.
	She crumples to her knees with a choked cry and he half-drags her across the room to lift her easily off the floor and toss her on the bed. He handles her as if she were no heavier than a cloth doll, rolling her over on her belly and lifting her up off the sheets by her hips, kneeling behind her, the mattress squeaking under his weight.	
	“Spread your legs apart and keep ‘em that way,” he shouts at the sobbing child. “Do you hear me?”
	“ - y-yess - ug - yes sir -”
	The killer looks back at you as he positions his cock between your ten year old daughter’s asscheeks.
	“Your children are very polite, Julie - You brought them up well.”
	He looks down at the little girl before him and begins to stuff her full of 
manmeat.
	“I like that - oh yeah - I like that very much.”
	Sandy begins to squirm and kick as the hurtful penetration begins.
	You watch him raise his hand and slap her  buttcheek making her wail.
	“Don’t move around so much! Keep still! Yeah! Uh -unhh - That’s better.”
 	He glances back at you then as he begins to drive deep into poor Sandy’s
tight little shit chute. His big hand has left red imprints on Sandy’s behind.
	“Watch me, Julie -” he snarls meanly. “I’ll like it so much more if you watch.”
	You see him pick up a piece of rope left on the bed earlier, a short piece maybe five feet long. It might have been one of the ropes holding Mara Lane for Kessler, Kirkwood and Robeson’s knives.
	You watch it all upside down in your upside-down nightmare world.
	The killer wrapping the bloody piece of rope around Sandy’s throat as he fucks her.
	Your helpless daughter crying and choking as he tugs on the rope.
	Sandy’s hands reaching up to her throat.
	“Don’t touch  that rope,” Riemann tells her.
	Her pretty little head coming up off the sheets, mouth wide, tongue lolling.
	“Yeahh - I like it when they’re polite and obedient. That’s when its nice for me.  Billy was so good - such a good boy - didn’t make a sound even when
I cut him open like a fish - uh - right, Sandy? Huh? Right, you little bitch?”
	He yanks on the rope and your daughter’s head is pulled back.  She nods
and gasps for air, her face flushed.
	You plead for him to stop but it is useless.
	He rams himself into the luckless child.
	“Tight little fuck, aren’t you? Ahhh - yeahh - soo fuckin’ tight -”
	He pounds Sandy into the bed choking her with the rope, spanking her
with his free hand, then grabbing her hips in both hands to jam himself deep
in the ten year old.
	“I told Billy to keep quiet for me and he did - real quiet - until I cut
his little dick off.”
	You see it in your head, Julie. The dragon-tattooed monster in your clean
blue bathroom, the boy hanging there for him.  Maybe he tied Sandy up somehow and made her watch.  Poor little Billy.  You can only guess at how he suffered.
And all because of you.  Tim and Billy and now Sandy, all horribly raped and massacred because of the heat between your thighs, because of your need to go that night long ago with Larissa and parade yourself for the men. 
	You’re no better than the stripper the men slaughtered with their spears. 	No better than some trailer trash prostitute. 
	No.You’re worse.  You’ve led your whole family to destruction.
	Spark-spots burst in your eyes as the weight of your body sags against the post and the rope around your neck chokes you.
	“You liked it when he fucked you, didn’t you?” the voice whispers.
	It’s Larissa. 
	You can’t see her but you smell her damp, rotting, death wounds.
	The upside down world where your baby daughter is being assraped by the killer is a haze of blurry images.
	On broken legs, the murdered stripper rises, her hands clawing at the
wall to pull herself up and dance to hard thumping music and distant echoing screams.
	From the shadows and the corners the dead girls emerge.
	“You loved it, Julie, the deep stabbing of his big hardness...the killing pain.
Learn to love it, Jul. Learn to give in to it, to take it all in and give it all up.”
	All around you the murdered females sway, undulate, their bodies hungry
for destruction.
	On the bed Riemann punches your little girl’s back, mean faced, his
hips jackhammering his cock, pile-driving it to his balls in Sandy as he
tugs hard on the choke-rope, the child gasp-squealing, sobbing, looking in
your direction for assistance, breaking your heart as you tug against the ropes
that secure you, because you can’t help her. You can’t help any of them.
Not Larissa, not Sheila, not little Ann Rowen or her sister Jessie, not the two women in the holding cell or the oriental girl, Lily Kan, drowning in her own blood now rising from the concrete floor to smile at you, a white tropical flower in her hair, the gash in her neck no longer bleeding . No, Julie. There is nothing you can do for any of them, is there? How can you when you - can’t - even - help - yourself.  
	Riemann punches Sandy again and his big meaty fist thumps into her and the bed creaks as he grinds into her and choke-fucks her and the spinning star-streaks make you dizzy, the dancing yearning bodies in the spinning night-club lights, Mara Lane spreading her high-heeled legs, spilling her guts center stage as Sandy cries:
	“Muuhhmmiiieeee - gghh! nn-ag - muhhh - gg - helpp - hhghh - pleezze - h-helpp! - uhgg!”
	But there’s no help for her.  She’s female and the laws of nature conspire against her.  All masculine greed and brutality shall be aimed at her, focused on her. You tried to save her from it but your efforts were wasted. She will not be saved and you will not be saved.  
	You can feel it in your cunt, can’t you?
	Deep in your beaten stinking cunt.
	And you see her little head sag.
	Both of you will die for the pleasure of the sadists.
	“No! Nooo!” you shriek, struggling against the unyielding ropes.
	He’s killing her.
	He’s smiling, fucking her with gracefully forceful thrusts, like a
dance, a killing dance, to the ghost music of the dead whores, holding Sandy’s head by the rope, his other hand clutching her hip, in-thrust and out-thrust as she goes limp.  Then he unwinds the choking rope, leans forward and pulls her little head up by the hair to slap her face and head from behind her.  Smackk!  Smackk!  Smackk! and she comes back, gagging, coughing - and again he wraps the rope around her neck. And again he choke-fucks her enjoying the way her invaded sphincter grips him each time he yanks on the rope, each time he drives his hard fist into her back, the bed rocking, blood-smeared satin sheets spilled to the floor. He can kill the child anytime he wants.  You know that.  But he plays with her instead, tortures and torments her for greater pleasure, for more perfect control and definition of his masculine need and there’s no saving her, Julie. No saving your daughter or yourself.  The time has come to pay.    Once again Sandy
goes limp and once again he unwinds the rope and revives her.
	“Pleeeease!” you scream at him from your awkward bondage against
the wooden post. “Kill me and not her - me and not her -”
	Riemann laughs wrapping the rope once more around your daughter’s frail little neck.  The skin around her throat is chafed and bleeding.  Her lips
are faintly blue and she opens her mouth wide to breathe, her eyes half
closed and slightly crossed.
	Again the killer rides her, punching his little fuck-mule, his punished baby-whore, pulling on the choke-rein, slamming her into the swaying mattress.
	“ - me and not her - oh dear Jesus - me - and - n-not - her -”
	Suddenly Kessler is standing over you.
	Upside down in your upside down world.
	The ghost-women dance around trailing white vapor.
	They have ushered him into the room while you called out and the door to the warehouse hallway is left open and there are screams out there, women
desperately serving their pain masters.
	Kessler’s ten inch penis is sheathed in blood-dripping black barbed leather.
	You watch it approach. 
	Killer cock coming for you.
	“Its gonna be both of you, cow,” he growls moving in. “Both of you.”
	His cock hovers over you, his hands grip your thighs.
	“But she’s gonna be first and we’re gonna make you watch.”
	The pain of the penetration is so acute that the room actually spins in a blaze of orange light and your mouth yawns in a silent horror-scream that
begins seconds later as he drives slowly into you, the steel barbs tearing your
cunt passage, his hands digging into your assmeat to keep you steady.
	You’re on the edge of losing consciousness but somehow you hold on as the
barbed fuck of your beaten cunt goes on and on.  On the bed across the room
Riemann is slapping Sandy back to consciousness again.  Nauseated and dizzy,
your nails scratching at the wooden post, you feel the vomit rise up and fill
your mouth.
	“Grr-aghhhh!” you gasp as it spills from your lips and spatters your toes.
	Kessler slams heartlessly into you, spurred on by the dark blood pouring from your slit around his studded shaft.  
	A yellowish stream oozes from your gaping mouth down into your eyes and hair.
	Your pupils roll back, knees give and the world goes gray and time slips unrecognizably.
	....then somehow, you’re not against the post anymore.
	You find yourself crawling on the floor like an animal leaving fat
drops of blood behind you as you go being pulled along by your hair and
hoisted up on to the bed.
	Sandy lies on her back, legs wide, her face almost blue, the rope loosely
draped across her chest, her eyes glassy, her chest rising and falling
as she breathes hypnotically.  Her violated pussy and assholes bleed on the
sheets. There are dark bruises all over her.
	“Eat her,” your Master orders.
	Is it Kessler or Riemann? You’re not sure. They both stand
over the bed watching.
	They are both your Masters, your Owners.
	You are their property.
	Dirt.
	Human garbage.
	Trash.
	“Eat your daughter’s pussy.”
	The command is followed by a punch to your side that winds you and makes you crumple, folding from the waist.
	One of them pulls your head by your hair right to Sandy’s bloody baby-slit.
	You do as you’re told sloppily lapping at your daughter’s violated
sex, tears streaming from your eyes.
	The men climb on to the bed around you.
	You start to raise your head to look at them but your face is 
pushed back down into Sandy’s cooze.
	“Keep going. Don’t stop.”
	Again the barbed dildo is placed against your cunthole.
	“N-nnaaahhhh!” you screech as it sinks into you.
	In front of you one of the men crouches over Sandy to rub his cock
in your eyes and cheeks and against your daughter’s mons.
	“Keep eating her.”
	Time slips and slides.
	The Masters handle you, turn you and twist you to fit their pleasure.
	You’re on your back on the bed and Sandy is hung by her ankles above you, floating,  her hands roped behind her, thick cord around her waist, her face just above yours.
	A hook has been pierced through her tongue and a thin metal chain
leads down from it into your mouth.  A red drop moves down the chain links. You can taste blood, Sandy’s and yours, and cold metal. Vaguely, as if you had dreamed it, you remember keeping your lips wide as Riemann stabbed a hook through your own tongue and Kessler stood by lifting Sandy up by her legs, tying her little hands behind her. Seeing her wine-colored little nails made you sob brokenly remembering when you and she played together in the bedroom painting each other’s toes and fingers. “See? Now you’re just like a grown-up woman,” you’d told her.  “Pretty. Just like momma.” Was it a dream? Red nails. Red blood. Kessler killing the oriental child - the orphan waif that came all the way from Thailand, half way across the world to be heartlessly butchered. ‘This could be Sandra,’ he’d said. You remember but you don’t remember or you try not to remember your little girl, sunshine of your life, seed of your womb, rising up off the bed, the squeaking ratcheting sound of the cranking mechanism...the same sound that accompanied Mara Lane’s shattered flight...little Sandy’s hair trailing the sheets then rising off them, suspended child slow-spinning in mid-air. And then the linking of your tongues as you were made to lie underneath her while they  tied your legs in a cocked back position, ankles against thighs, roped tight, your bare feet up in the air your own wine-colored toes wriggling as your legs went numb from the tight bonds, your daughter’s  wispy mane tickling your neck and pierced, swollen, purple-bruised tit-caps.
	Sandy’s brown eyes look into yours, a mournful reflection of your own.
	Lost. Helpless.
	“Agg?” she groans, drooling on to your cheeks.
	Down by your legs one of the men climbs on to the bed.
	There’s a quick swishing sound and slicing pain on the sole of your  right foot.
	“Ugggg!” you grunt. Involuntarily your head swings sideways and the
chain on your tongue is pulled taut, Sandy giving out a short yelp, eyes wide,
sharp metal pain on your own tongue.
	Kessler’s voice is unemotional:
	“Both of you will need to keep real fucking still”
	Again the swish and the slicing pain now across your other foot.
	“Agghh!” you grunt, trying to keep your muscles from reacting.
	The other man climbs on to the bed above your head where you can’t see.
	You catch a glimpse of lashtongues as they swing and crack against
Sandy’s belly.
	“Oowww!” she cries her head jerks to the side away from you almost
gashing your tongue out of your wide-eyed face.
	The hooded killers coordinate the strokes of their short whips to make your daughter jerk and kick in mid air, her little painted toes curling, as she is belly-whipped, forced to pull against you, and you are made to twist against her as your feet are slashed.
	Soon the men achieve a continuous rhythm that keeps both of you
in constant suffering, Sandy’s suspension chain rattling, the bed creaking under you, sweat dripping into your eyes blinding you, new sharp burning
pain from the stinging foot-whipping and the tugging of the hook in your mouth.
	You know nothing would delight the sadists more than that you or your daughter would lose your tongues in the struggle. 
	You pray they will stop before that happens but it is a hopeless empty prayer.
	You see the whip flail and snap against her rippling thighs.
	Up close, Sandy’s own suffering overwhelms you and adds to the 
emotional torment the killers have decided to impose on you.
	You grip the chain between your teeth to reduce the risk of
losing flesh.
	“Let go of it,” Riemann grunts. “Or I’ll just cut both of your tongues out now...with a hot knife.”
	You obey.
	The whipping continues.
	Slasssh - across Sandy’s belly.
	Whhpppp! - across the vulnerable flesh of your foot-soles.
	Slasshh! - Whppp! - Slasshh! - Whppp!
	Over and over, harder and harder, until you and Sandy are both 
sobbing and groaning, lost in mind-shattering pain, fat welts popping up on
her thighs and belly, your feet crossed with numerous whip-lines.
	When the killers tire of this they pull the hook out of your tongue and haul you across the bed so that they can pierce your beaten swollen clitoris to
your daughter’s little mouth.
	Now the pain is exponentially increased and the whips attack your
already beaten tits and your daughter’s little round asscheeks.
	You bring your hands over your boobs to fend off the blows.
	“Keep ‘em on the bed,” Riemann commands.
	There is no other possibility for you but to do his bidding.
	You leave yourself open to him and the cruel lashing continues.
	“Fucking bitches,” Kessler growls.
	His whip tears into Sandy and she twists and jerks, her face flushed,
mouth gaping, wildly screaming as the thin chain tugs at the hook in your 
clit and raw agony tears like electrical fireworks all the way through you, your hands balled up into fists at your sides, your teeth clenched, eyes shut tight.
	The whipping seems to go on forever, your baby daughter’s ass cut
and bleeding, your throat raw from screaming out cunt pain but then you are being hauled off the bed, legs untied.
	Kessler makes you stand up, pulling you to your feet by your hair.
	Sharp burning pain travels up your legs as your whipped soles
take your weight.
	He pulls you to the middle of the room and leaves you there backing away.
	Riemann sits on the bed, whip in hand still.
	Sandy dangles from the chain sobbing softly. Trickles of blood from her
buttcheeks have moved down her back to drip off her shoulders and on to the
twisted bed sheets.
	“Rotate, Julie,” Kessler commands.
	“I want the cameras to see you from every angle.”
	Slowly, obediently, you begin to move, painfully, in a short circle,
your feet bleeding on the floor as you turn, clockwise.  You try to remain
upright, hands at your sides, but you’re nearly losing your balance.
	“Stay on your feet and keep turning,” Kessler orders sharply. “I want the people who buy the video to see up close what we’ve done to you - every fucking little detail of it.”
	On the bed Riemann is jerking off slowly, watching.
	Kessler has the portable video-cam on his shoulder and he circles around you, the camera lens going in for closeups on your welted flesh, on your
tortured feet, on your disfigured pussy mound.
	It has come to this, Julie.
	You are the star of Bloody Snuff 4, an underground snuff film that will net close to six million dollars.
	Men will look at the image of you and your daughter’s tortured bodies and cum.
	Connosieurs will pay top money for these images.
	Then Kessler moves toward the bed and Riemann gets up and steps aside.
	Kessler aims his camera at your daughter as she hangs moaning, tears dripping from her face, blood from her whipped body.  He pans up and down
slowly licking his lips, his leather-sheathed cock rigidly bobbing as he circles
the bed.
	Riemann comes for you.
	“Kneel,” he says softly.
	You slide down painfully.
	“Hands behind you.”
	This is where you belong, your hand clasping your rope-chafed wrist at the base of your whipped back.
	He holds you by the shoulder and rubs his cock in your hair and on your face.
	“We’re gonna take you home now, Julie,” he tells you as if he were speaking to a child. “Kessler and I.”
	You look up at him. He has a black hood on his head, like the ones Kessler and his men wear.
	He traces your cheeks with his prick.
	For a moment he cups your chin in his strong hand then without hesitation he releases you to slap your face hard, yanking you back by your hair when you start to tip over.
	Again he rubs his cock on your face for a few moments and then again,
deliberately he smacks your cheek with a full-fledged open-handed stroke.
	This time he doesn’t need to keep you from falling.
	You keep your balance for him.
	You look straight ahead.
	He slaps you again.
	You whimper.
	“Bitch,” he snarls meanly.
	The next slap is deafening.
	Kessler circles with the video-cam on his shoulder. The shots where Riemann’s dragon tattoo is visible will later be edited out to minimize recognition.
	Kessler no longer wears the barbed cock-sheath.
	“I want you to tell me you love me,” Riemann says, making an effort to keep his voice calm.
	You wait silently.
	His blow comes, harshly turning your head.
	“Say it, cunt.”
	You look up at him with tear-filled eyes.
	“I l-love you,” you say softly.
	Again he strikes you, backhands you, keeps you from toppling by
grabbing your tangled mane.
	“Say it like you fucking mean it.”
	Your face is flushed hot from his slaps.
	Kessler goes in for the closeup.
	“I - love - you -”
	“You’re a piece of shit,” he snarls contemptuously.
	You know that he is right. In fact, he is being kind.
	Grabbing the top of your head he turns you to the camera.
	“Now tell them - tell all the men that are gonna watch you and your
filthy daughter die for our pleasure - tell them, cunt.”
	A sob chokes your throat and then you look into Kessler’s camera.
	“I - I love you,” you mutter.
	“Louder, pig.”
	“I - love - you - all - of - you - all - all of you.” 
	And you do, don’t you, Julie? You really do love all of them.  All the men who want to see you and Sandy bleed and die.  Can you fucking believe it? You actually love all the men who want to see you and your child and the other defenseless women hurting and bleeding, broken and defeated.  Now you know your place. Now you know what is expected of you.  Now you finally understand. 
	On your knees before your masters.
	Riemann holds you from behind, his strong hands on your shoulders as Kessler wraps the short pieces of barbed wire tight around your beaten tits. The metal spikes dig into your flesh, cut into you and you cry.
	You take it as they bring you to your feet and push the fat metal cylinders up your bleeding barb-fucked pussy and asshole, pushing them into you and making you put on the tight rubber thong that will hold the cylinders hilted deep inside you.
	You cry and whimper as they pierce four long sharp needles right through each of your nipples and wrap another stretch of barbed wire around your waist.
	Finally, they make you step into the high-heel sandals and buckle them tight to your whipped feet.  Inside the shoes, tiny barbs pierce into your already
tortured whipped soles and you can barely stand.
	Kessler fits a black harness gag over your face stuffing the fat rubber bridle-ball in your mouth and buckling it tight around your head. He wraps a slave collar around your neck from which a metal o-ring dangles buckling it also tightly, pulling the take-up strap as far as it will go so that it chokes you, your face soon flushed red as you gasp dizzily for air.
	Riemann has a remote control unit in his hand.
	“I like this,” he tells Kessler turning a knob on the unit.
	The cylinders inside you buzz and shoot an electrical burst into you.
	“Aooowww!” you cry out and nearly fall to the floor.
	Kessler grips your arm and helps you stay on your feet.
	He lets go of you.
	Again Riemann turns the knob.
	This time the electricity makes you bend forward, your hands flailing out at your sides.
	“Let it fuck you,” Riemann says curtly. “And don’t fall down.”
	You try, Julie, you try so hard to obey them and please them.
	For nearly three minutes you stand there, stamping the heels of your torture sandals against the floor, bright flashes of pain from your punished feet moving up your legs, whining and gurgling dizzily, your eyes almost popping out of your head under the leather harness strips and the severe grip of the slave collar, taking the electrical torture in your torn, woodcaned cunt and in your ass before Riemann shuts it off.
	“Walk across the room for me, pig,” he orders.
	You take the first uncertain painful step, already in tears.
	“Let me get this,” Kessler mutters picking up the video-cam again.
	This shot of you, tit-tied in barbed wire,  in black leather thong  and
six inch high-heel sandals, harness-gagged, your body striped and bruised, another stretch of barbed wire around your waist, each wobbly step a hell of agony, the electric dildos inside you blasting you every few steps and almost knocking you to the ground will be the teaser for the video. It will also be one of Warden Harper’s favorite parts.
	By then Kirkwood and Robeson have entered the killing room, freshly excited from the ongoing tortures of Karyn Waters and Darla Bessinger.
	Kessler and Riemann put on their street clothes and shoes and are soon ready to go.
	They watch you take another torture-walk as suggested by Riemann, this time for the pleasure of all four bitch-killers. Kirkwood has scrawled a word on a piece of plywood with a magic marker and they’ve hung it around your neck, like a placard.
	‘FUCKSLUT’ it says.
	“Nice,” Robeson comments watching you walk slowly with the ugly sign around your neck stumbling awkwardly and whining, as Riemann turns the knob on the remote control.
	“She looked pretty good until you powered her up,” Kirkwood laughs.
	“We’ll have to work with her on that,” Riemann replies.
	You watch, helpless, Julie, as Robeson and Kirkwood turn from you to lower Sandy on to the bed. Again: that horrible ratcheting sound as Robeson turns the crank.
	Kessler steps up to you as you watch the men begin to release your whipped daughter from the ropes that bind her and to grope and handle her body obscenely as they climb on to the bed with her.
	“If you try anything - anything at all - out there I’ll have them kill her immediately. I expect absolute obedience from you at all times, understand?”
	You nod slowly, looking at the floor.
	“As it is,  they might just fuck her to death,” Riemann adds as Kirkwood pulls Sandy’s legs apart and crouches between her welt-ridden thighs raising his fat cock to her pussyhole.
	“Mommieeeee!” Sandy shrieks. “Mommieeee!” 
	Robeson slaps the child across her face silencing her instantly then he climbs on top of her to sit on her sobbing face, to rub his balls on her and jerk off while Kirkwood fills the child with his meat.
	It has come to this, Julie.
	Would you have believed it?
	Seeing your daughter like that makes you press your thighs together against the electrical dildos stuffed up inside you.
	You long to trade places with her, to give yourself to the rape, to feel the hungry gripping hands seizing you and wanting you.
	You know you will not try anything out there on the street, not because Sandy will die.  She will die regardless, no matter what you do. That is a given.  But because there is no longer any point in struggling, in trying to escape. 
	This is who you are.
	Dirt, Julie. Female dirt. Filthy stinking trash. That’s all. All you’ve ever been. All you ever will be.
	Stinking human garbage.
	Riemann gives the remote control knob a twist watching you try to contain yourself, your hips jerking, drool running from your quivering lips as you bite into the rubber bridle-gag, your eyes shutting tightly behind the straps of the harness gag.
	“Fucking cunt,” he laughs turning the power off.
	You cry disconsolately as Kessler and Riemann  lead you from the killing room and up the stairs, the tiny barbs in the high-heel torture shoes digging into your tender whipped skin as you climb awkwardly.
	Before leaving the warehouse office the sign they’ve hung around your neck slips off and falls.
	‘FUCKSLUT’ it proclaims as you almost trip over it.
	Riemann starts to pick it up.
	“That’s ok,” Kessler tells him. “Leave it there. Since she can’t manage to keep it on we’ll just have to burn it into her skin.”
	“...or carve it,” Riemann adds.
	“One more thing,” Kessler says suddenly moving toward the closet behind the louvered doors.
	He comes back with a short black dress crumpled in his hand.  It’s like something out of Frederick’s of Hollywood, cheap and slutty with spaghetti straps.  He pulls it down over your head and the soft fabric settles over your pierced wire-bound tits which protrude like twin warhead cones, purple, striped and bloody under the black cloth.  The hem of the dress comes to the middle of your whipped thighs.
	“Perfect,” Riemann comments. “The piece-de-resistance.”
	The men chuckle. Kessler takes a leash from a drawer in the desk and clips it to your collar handing it to Riemann who leads you out through the door.
	Coming from your captivity in the dark interior of the warehouse you are suddenly blinded by the morning sun and you totter on the six-inch heels like a stoned prostitute.
	Behind you, very distantly and faintly, deep in the Vanner warehouse, you hear Sandy wailing as the killers savagely rape her. Then the metal door swings shut and you hear only the sounds of the bright new day outside.
	Each step down the metal staircase to the parking lot is mind-bending anguish. Riemann descends ahead of you pulling on the leash, Kessler is behind you, his hand on your shoulder to steady you.
	He has told you they are taking you back home.
	Home.
	Don’t they know?
	You are a fuckslut. You have no home. You never earned or deserved to have such a place.
	And now, certainly, you never will.

24. The Winnfried House
(9:30 AM)

	The van with the tinted glass windows rode unnoticed toward Seabrook.  	Kessler and Riemann sat up front discussing their plans for their victims, considering the options, weighing the visual value of those tortures that would be taped and the pleasure quotient of those that would not.  
	Julie rode on the back seat of the van, wrists handcuffed to a chain that was attached to a bolt in the carpeted floor, the same chain that had kept her in bondage when she’d first been captured.  She was forced to lean forward, her chin on the hard vynl edge of the seat in front of her, her pierced tits pushing painfully against the seat-panel with the motion of the road. 
	The shadow and light patterns of the sun through the trees that canopied the road streaked by.  For Julie the world outside moved past like a mirage. 
	Occasionally Kessler’s glance would bore into her from the rear-view mirror or Riemann would turn to taunt her degradingly.
	Each bump on the road sent burning pain from the whipped soles of her feet in the spike-soled sandals and from the thick metal dildos pushing against
her barbed-dildo-raped holes.  The leash dangled from her slave collar down between her legs. Her mind floated in a haze of physical and spiritual suffering.
	The gray morning had given way to a rosy glow that filtered through the foliage lining the highway into town and repetitive patters continued to stream
past the window.  Julie’s eyes glimpsed the beauty of the day but attached no significance to it.  
	Her mind swung in and out of perception.  Sometimes the voices of the killers buzzed and echoed senselessly, words devoid of meaning and substance. She heard them discuss the torture and slaughter of the other women, of her daughter Sandy, and her own, and she knew that to them it was nothing more than shop-talk.  The fact that they so cold-bloodedly discussed such things in front of her drove home the idea that she was nothing but chattel now - kill-meat.  Her life was nothing to them but the potential for several exquisite orgasms and a hefty paycheck. On the edge of town the killers even stopped for coffee, confident that their victim would make no attempt to free herself or draw attention to the van.
	They knew, because it is instinctive in bitch-killers to know such things, that she was totally broken.
	Kessler parked the van in the rear of the Wayland diner, away from the other parked cars and Riemann went into the boxcar-like building.
	Julie could see the patrons through the windows of the diner as they
enjoyed their breakfast or read the newspaper.  She saw people driving by on their way to work or to drop the children at school, just as she herself had once done.  	Life out there was going on as usual, in complete disregard of her
and her family’s terminal predicament. It would go on in just the same way when she was buried and forgotten in the dark grave waiting for her behind the Vanner warehouse.  
	Julie’s chestnut eyes glazed over with tears.
	“You’re nothing but a piece-of-shit whore,” Kessler said meanly, half turned in the seat, facing her, his hand in the crotch of his tight jeans.  “That’s what you are and that’s what you’ve always been and you fucking know it. I know you can’t talk with that bridle gag in your mouth but nod if you agree with me. Am I right, slave?”
	She nodded slowly, eyes downcast.  As she moved her head the ring on her slave collar tinkled softly.
	“Good. I’m glad you concur with our opinion of you. We’re taking you home so you can see Phil’s handiwork.  You need to see what you’ve brought on yourself and your loved ones.  You need to know that prissy little women like you are the ones that ruin the world, Julie. You need to understand fully that your only role in life is to obey men and to suffer and die for our pleasure.”
	He watched the effect of his words and then added.
	“I know you were listening before - that is if you weren’t too caught up with yourself back there - so you know we’re gonna kill Sandy slowly.  Very slowly. We’re gonna get all we can out of your little ten year old. And you’re gonna watch.  Don’t you agree that such punishment is exactly what a cunt like you deserves? I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’ll enjoy killing the little fuck, but what will really rock the boat is seeing what it will do to you.”
	Even though the idea of watching Sandy die under terrible torture sickened and outraged her Julie was beginning to understand that there would be no other way for this madness to end.  And yet, she still struggled.  She knew her motherly instincts would be tested to the limits. Her acceptance was not yet complete; some part of her still had not succumbed to the killer’s ownership and control.
	She nodded reluctantly and the slave collar tinkled.
	Kessler lifted the remote voltage control and aimed it at her.
	“You know what this is don’t you?”
	Her eyes went wide.
	“Tell me you want it.”
	She looked from the thing in his hand to his eyes.
	Pain was the only reality left for her at that moment.  Pain and submission.
	She nodded slowly, eyes downcast.
	Kessler stared back at her for a moment, then pushed the button.
	Instantly her torn pussy and asshole were assailed by the electrical fire from the dildos.  She shuddered and craned her head back unable to move,
held by her chained wrists. 
	Her collar and her manacles rattled metallically.
	“Bitch,” Kessler grunted smiling and released the button.
	Julie slumped weakly on the seat, white frothy spittle escaping around the edges of the bridle gag, dripping to the carpeted floor between her sandalled feet.
	“You’re a filthy stinking bitch and you know it. It pleases me infinitely to see you suffer.  We are all going to enjoy making you suffer as much as possible right up to the end, Julie.”
	Again the killer pushed the button.
	White smoke smouldered from her thonged crotch.  She could smell herself burning.
	Her teeth chattered and she bit her tongue accidentally, shutting her eyes tightly as the pain exploded.
	The bursts ceased suddenly and when she opened her eyes again Kessler had turned away, looking forward as if she didn’t even exist, as if nothing of any importance had happened.  Her eyes teared up.  Being so completely ignored
was even worse. It was as if she had suddenly become invisible.
	Outside the van life went on.  The entire world was oblivious to her horror.
She realized fully how completely, utterly alone she was.  Utterly alone and
defenseless.
	She clung to the memory of Kessler’s huge barbed dildo tearing into her cunt and into her ass. He had ripped her apart inside and now she realized that such sexual pain was exactly what she’d needed all her life.
	Genital torture, the people on the Internet called it.
	She never would have believed that she could submit to, much less actually deeply crave such a thing.
	But she was realizing there was a lot of things about herself she would not have believed before becoming Kessler’s captive.
	Riemann returned with two steamy styrofoam cups of coffee and after Kessler started up the van again they drove through Seabrook’s suburban streets calmly sipping on them.
	Julie could not understand how the killers could be so calm, so matter-of-fact about what they were doing.  Weren’t they worried about witnesses or the police? 
	She did not understand that Kessler and Riemann handled the situation conceputally in military terms.  For them, cleaning up the Winnfried house was merely a mop-up operation that had to be carried out before they could go on with the rest of their plans.  The added perk, though, Julie’s psychological destruction, even when it entailed a measure of considerable risk, was most definitely a bonus.  	This was a once-in-a-lifetime situation bitch-killers like Kessler and Riemann would never pass up.
	Kessler turned left into the street Julie had lived on.  Every house looked the same as it always had, every yard and every tree.  But this was not the neighborhood she remembered. In her mind now it apeared as colorless and alien.
	There was no one around as the van backed up into the Winnfried driveway.  Riemann had kept the remote for the garage door and it now
swung open as he pressed the switch, the wooden panel swinging clear then
sliding shut as the van backed up next to Tim’s Honda.
	The men stepped out calmly, Riemann carrying a large green duffle bag to the doorway into the house.  Kessler slid the passenger door open and went in
to release Julie from the chain and pull his harnessed-gag slaughterwhore
out by an arm.  The small hop down off the vehicle was extremely painful for the tormented woman as the tiny barbs in the high-heel sandals dug into the canewhipped soles of her feet and she grimaced and grunted.
	She leaned against the side of the van weakly as she watched the killers strip naked and don white rubber gloves they’d taken from the dashboard compartment.
	Then they came for her.
	They drew her into the house.
	Just like the neighborhood outside, her home appeared exactly as she had left it but felt unreal, as if it were a prop house on a movie set.
	And then she became aware of a putrid stench.
	“Damn,” Kessler commented. “I smell me some dead boy-meat.”
	Riemann chuckled.
	They led her down the hallway, where the smell was almost overpowering.
	The framed pictures on the wall stared down at her.  Tim with the kids in the backyard in a small round yellow plastic pool with cartoon fish on the side.
Julie and Tim on vacation in the Bahamas.  Sandy dressed up as an angel in the Christmas pageant.  Billy in his little leaguer outfit.
	Julie could see that the Little Mermaid night light was still on.
	Bloody smears led out of the bathroom and back in their direction.
	With Riemann and Kessler on either side of her they stepped into the bedroom, Julie’s clunky fuck-me torture sandals sinking into the soft tan carpet.
	Tim lay in the position Riemann had left him, scrunched on his wide-apart, shot-out knees in a pool of blood on the plastic-tarped bed.  He was rope-bound by ankles and neck and his wrists were trussed up behind him and bound with
a plastic cuff-strip.  His mouth gaped and his eyes, grayish and lifeless, like a fish’s stared at his shoulder.
	Julie’s knees sagged.
	The killers brought her to the edge of the bed and she sank to her knees before her dead husband.
	She felt so drastically out of place there in the skimpy Frederick’s of Hollywood dress, one spagetti-strap hanging down off her shoulder, the high-heel torture sandals dug into the white carpet.  She had come back to her home as exactly what she was, a beaten gutter-whore, vanquished, shamed, broken. 
	“Good work,” Kessler said staring down at the dead man on the bed.
	Raping Tim must have been incredibly pleasurable for Riemann, he thought.  And shooting him as he raped him - the idea made the killer smile as his
gloved hand moved down to his genitals.
	Kessler’s words ripped into what was left of Julie’s heart.  ‘Good work’, he’d said. Was that the apt way to describe the savage destruction of a sweet man who loved his family and designed beautiful buildings and flew kites with his son in the park on Sundays?  Was there any justice that such a man, the handsome blonde groom that had walked down the aisle with her just after her wedding dress had momentarily snagged on a carpet nail, that such a man who had passionately if ineptly loved her on this now tarp-covered bed, should face such a gruesome death?  The look on Tim’s face told her that his demise had been grotesque and acutely painful.  Julie knew that he had watched the killer with the children.  He had died in the most awful way possible for a parent, a violated helpless witness to the rape and death of his own offspring.
	“You caused all this,” Riemann told her.  Both killers had started to stroke themselves slowly.  Watching Julie face the destruction of her family was no
less inspiring to their sadistic impulses than if she were being flogged to blood.
	Such a spectacle certainly merited a high degree of risk.
	“You brought this on yourself and on your loved ones,” Riemann continued, delivering every word with crisp cynicism, as he stared down
at the kneeling, harnessed-gagged victim.  “Because of you your husband and son are dead and your daughter soon will be.  If you had climbed aboard that
truck sixteen years ago none of this would have hapenned.  You would have died with your cock-teasing girlfriend in the woods, just like she did, right alongside her. But you thought you were better than that, didn’t you? You thought you 
could testify against us, get us locked up and walk away and have yourself a normal life.  Well, cunt, you don’t deserve a normal life.  Not then, not now,
not ever.  But I think you already know that. Now kiss your husband goodbye.  Go ahead, kiss him.”
	Whimpering, Julie leaned forward, her hands on the tarp at the edge of the bed, the plastic making a crumpling sound as she put her weight on it.  She
brushed her bridle-gagged lips on Tim’s cold cheek.  The smell from him
reminded her of the smell that had come from Mara Lane.
	“No, no,” Kessler said reaching down to undo the clasp that held the harness and gag tight around her head.  He lifted the leather straps from her
and the drool-dripping ball and dropped it beside her on the bedroom floor.
	“Kiss him on the mouth, bitch, put your tongue in him, French-style, like when you and he made love.”
	Julie hesitated. Tears flowed again down her cheeks.
	“You can do it,” Riemann said softly.  She could hear the rubber gloves of the killers slithering back and forth on their erect cocks. “We know you
can. We know it’s in you. C’mon.  Do it for us.”
	Time began to side-slip then as she pressed her lips obediently into her dead husband’s gaping mouth-hole and thrust her tongue into it. She stared into his gray pupils up close and it was looking down twin empty tunnels.
	 The killers asked her to do filthy things with him, unspeakable, their calm voices buzzing in her ears.
	Do it for us, they said.
	We know. We know it’s in you.
	And she knew it was.
	She got up on the tarp-covered bed on her knees and Tim’s sticky half-clotted blood smeared her legs and hands.
	She slid under his rigid unyielding weight, to lie under him crying, his gray lifeless penis and balls pushing against her belly, her arms going around him.
	Tim’s eyes stared, bobbed lifelessly.
	Julie longed for the peace in them, the dark quiet peace of death.
	Time blurred. They asked for more.
	She licked his torn shit-smeared ass and genitals, licked his lifeless prick, pressed her face between his buttcheeks, her hair dipping into his blood.
	She slid down on the bed and licked his feet and toes and pressed her tongue into the bullet wounds in his kneehollows.
	She did it all for the killers, for their pleasure, knowing there was 
nothing else for her but this.
	And then they were leading her off the bed, making her crawl back toward the hallway and toward the bathroom, coming around the edge of the doorway
to see poor little Billy’s bare knife-gouged foot draped over the edge of the tub,  dear God, poor naked sweet broken boy lying torn and gutted, his face pressed against the metal ring around the drain hole, his eyes shut tightly mouth screaming silently, and they asked more of her, so much more, things a mother should never be asked to do with her murdered boy, time blurring as she slid into the tub and took him in his arms, his dead cold rigid body weighing down on her, the killers now rapidly jerking off, cupping their balls in rubber-gloved hands, rubber on flesh, skin on tiles, cold sticky blood and bits of intestine against her thighs as she wails for Billy, a mindblown pieta , a broken slaughterwhore and her dead castrated son, innocent victim paying for the sins of the world, the killers looking down and enjoying this, their heads haloed in the recessed ceiling lights of the bathroom.  ‘Kiss him,’ they order. ‘Lick him. Mmm. Lick his wounds.’  And she does it, dear God, she does it, what kind of motherslut is she, motherpig, wasted and useless, in that black slutty dress, both straps now off her shoulders, dipping her head down to trace the edges of the knife-cuts, the deep gouged flesh smearing her cheeks with blood, doing the killers’ bidding as they tell her to press his pretty little face against her rubber-thonged pussy, and she obeys, one leg slung over the edge of the tub, pulling Billy to her as if she could take him back into her womb whole, stuff him back into her, Kessler taking the remote control to send bursts of electrical fire into the dildos buried in her, telling her to piss on him, slut, piss on his fucking face, and she groans and sobs and looks up at the two killers who watch intently as she releases her bladder, bubbling urine spilling from her and on her little boy’s cheeks and eyes, her little golden boy, her magic child, her angel. ‘Yeah!’ the killers grunt approvingly and again Kessler gives her the electricity, white fire burning everything from her mind, her dangling sandalled bleeding foot kicking loudly against the side of the tub,  oh yes, burn it all out of me, dear Jesus, Billy, God, this is what I deserve, give it to me!  and hot tendrils of pain moving down her thighs and up her belly under the black blood-smeared Frederick’s of Hollywood party dress. But it’s not enough. Not by far. They make her crawl out of the tub to find Billy’s little genitals, cut from him and spilled on the tiled floor.  She is dizzy. The room spirals around her.  ‘Do it, cunt. You know it’s in you to do it. Do it for us.’ Poor little Billy’s penis, mutilated, dark red boy-flesh on the floor of the tub - in a pool of clotted flesh, his balls torn apart and smeared on the tiles. ‘Lick it up, cunt. Eat it.’ She can’t. Oh dear God not this, it can’t be what they want of her. She hesitates and they wait for her, standing over the woman, waiting with her, knowing she will do it for them, knowing, stroking themselves and watching with hungry relentless eyes as their slaughter-slave slowly drops her head, leans down over the tub’s edge, her lips on the bloody floor of the tub to take the castrated penis of her little boy Billy, sweet angel who ran ahead of her in the park, who swam so pretty in the pool, the same pool she’d watched Larissa jump into from the high-dive, the same pool Kirkwood has watched his daughter Leanne swim in, lusting for her, and Julie bites into the human meat as the men sigh in deep pleasure, their white gloved-hands making wet rubbery sounds on their genitals, and she sits up, blood dripping from her lips and time blurring and the room spiraling to say:
	“Beat me - please - beat me - hurt me - kill me -”
	Kessler smiles and works the remote control.
	The white electrical bursts rock her back against the tiled wall, her legs kicking out and shuddering, eyes rolling back in her head.
	He keeps her in that place of pain for a few moments then releases her.
	She drags her legs up slowly under her and comes up on her knees her back against the cold tile, her hands inert at her sides.
	“More,” she groans. “Please. More.”
	The killers stand on either side of her working their cocks with fast
eager strokes.
	“Let’s shoot off on her first,” Kessler snarls.
	Julie looks up at the masturbating killers.  Their crazed excitement sends a responsive chill through her.
	“Yes,” she urges. “Do it. Cum all over me.”
	She looks from one to the other, wasted motherwhore about to be cum on in the same room her little boy was butchered, needing it and wanting it. She still holds Billy’s balls in one hand.
	“Give it to me - give it to me - give it to me -”
	Riemann shoots first.
	“Ahhh! Yeahhh! Fuckin’ bitcchhhh...”
	His fat prick unloads a burst of thick jism across her forehead and another across her nose and cheeks just as Kessler bends down, one hand on the wall to steady himself, aiming his cockhead right at her mouth.
	She opens willingly wide for him and he cums Riemann still emptying his prick rubbing into her ear.
	“Ohhh yee-AAHHH!”
	Salty spunk fills her mouth, blinds her.
	She moans breathlessly and takes it.
	They begin to dip down and smear their cock-shafts against her scum-sticky lips, the under-side of their pricks on her mouth, wiping Billy’s blood and their own jism from her with them as she looks up lost. They alternate, getting into a kind of rhythm, pressing their erections on her mouth but not penetrating, enjoying the sensation of her lips, staring down into her sad brown eyes. They feed on her suffering, Kessler’s cock soon arched again, hooking upward, Riemann’s thick and meaty.  Then, they take turns fucking her mouth, pushing into it, jamming their pricks into her throat, choking her, gripping her head to fill her, knees bent, hips working. Incredibly they have returned to full arousal while their cum still drips down her chin and neck.
	Finally they step back.
	“Get up on your feet,” Riemann says.
	How can she stand in the spiraling room? But she does, because it is her duty to do so, to obey, to please her Killer Masters, leaning against the wall as she gets up on one knee and then the other, Billy’s blood trickling down her legs, his genitals slipping from her hand, pieces of him on her scum-dripping lips and in her tangled, brown hair.
	Kessler pulls the plastic thong down to her ankles, makes her step out of it, reaches up to yank the metal dildos from her ass and cunt.
	Her burned swollen pussy drools.
	A glistening drop of sperm rolls down on to her shoulder and into the edge of the black dress.
	“Please,” she says again, her voice a quivering but monotone and emotionless sound, her tongue sticky with man-cum. “Please beat me - I need it - I want it - I deserve it.”
	By her arm she is drawn to the center of the spiraling, teetering room to stand between both men, Kessler reaching out to pull the black dress up over her head, tossing it by the bathroom door.
	Riemann touches her pierced nipples, his eyes full of wonder and man-lust.
	“Nice,” he says softly.
	His hand traces the tight purple-swollen flesh of her barbed-wire bound tits.
	One by one he pulls the pins out of her, tossing them in the sink basin.
	She trembles, head hanging as the pain buzzes through her, spit and the last remnants of cum oozing from her mouth.
	Riemann unwraps the wire from around her tits. Kessler unwraps the wire from around her waist.
	The wire too is tossed into the sink basin.
	The killers crack their white-gloved knuckles.
	They wait, poised for the attack, their weak naked slave-collared mind-raped victim raising her head to look at the ceiling. She sees the rope hanging from the ventilation fan which is almost ripped out of its casing. It was the rope Riemann used to strangle the boy but she has no way of knowing that, sensing only its malicious intent.
	Riemann pounds his fist into the palm of his other hand.
	It is a threatening sound.
	“ - beat me -” she whispers. “ - please, please beat me - hard -”
	Without warning they begin, their hard fists driving into her belly and tits and thighs, into her back and ass-cheeks, Riemann in front, Kessler behind, both
men punching her with fierce zest, yanking her back up when she starts to fall, Riemann holding her by her shoulders as Kessler pounds into her kidneys, her
face pressed against Riemann’s muscular chest, her tongue licking at his hard flesh, at his sweaty nipple, then Kessler holding her by her hair and neck while Riemann pounds into her belly and tits. They corral her into a corner and both of them attack with open handed slaps and violent pistoning punches.  Her high-heeled shoes clatter on the tiled floor as she moves from one side of the room to the other between both killers, not trying to avoid their blows but being slammed into motion by them, slammed into the wall and towel bar, spinning around, catching a glimpse of dead Billy in the tub, his face in a puddle of blood and piss.
	The pain of the blows is relentless, it is what she needs, to be pounded
to a pulp, to be seriously abused.
	Slapped hard and kidney punched simultaneoulsy she howls and sinks to her knees, is yanked back up by her hair for a pistoning assault on her ribs.
Something in her chest gives and she half-spins around to be punched in the face
and rocked back against the wall, her head slamming the door-frame.  Dragged back into the frenzied beating dance she is kept on her feet between both killers
who deliver slow-timed, well-aimed body punches, Riemann now behind and Kessler in front.
	“Whore!” they snarl as they beat her. “Pig! Scumbag slut!”
	They knee her in the cunt, punch the wind out of her, slam her tits and thighs.
	Down on one knee Kessler punches her calves.
	She hangs on to the towel bar, bent forward as both men punch her sides.
	She vomits bile, chokes, screams, gasps, begs for more and more and harder.
	On her knees Riemann holds her by a clump of her hair in his fist keeping her head high to slap her face brutally.
	Kessler knees her spine.
	The thudding of the white-gloved fists into woman-meat echo in the small room.
	The walls spin.
	Kessler sits on the toilet his cock pointing upward like a rocket.
	He is her undisputed ruler and she kneels to serve him, licking his shaft up and down slavishly while behind her Riemann puts his hands around her neck to squeeze and choke her, her calves pressed together on the floor between his feet.
	She cups Kessler’s balls in her hands.
	He scootches up on the seat and makes her lick his asshole.
	Riemann crouches over her as he pulls her back by the hair forcing her
to lick his asshole and balls.
	Unbelievable, you depraved whore, right here in the same room your baby angel-child was butchered - unbelievably you please Him, the murderer, the
slayer, the first to touch you and shame you.
	Julie pushes her tongue into Riemann’s stinking sweaty asshole.
	She loses track of it all.
	One of them, she does not see which one, punches her hard in the face breaking her nose.
	Both men take her on the floor.
	Time spins incoherently.
	She is double fucked, double rammed on the bloody tiles.  They choke her and punch her while they rape-fuck her welted body mercilessly.
	Yanked by her hair she’s made to crawl from the bathroom down the hallway to the kitchen.
	Yes, she thinks to herself. Yes. This is what I need. This is who I am. A bleeding crawling dirtbag slave. A soul-less thing. 
	Yes, she thinks to herself. Yes. Give it to me. Don’t stop. Break me.
	The killers search in the utensil drawers.
	They take basting forks and push them into her legs and sides while
she leans back against the counter, gripping the contoured edge.  They stab her
tits and belly and arms, stabbing just deep enough to bleed her and not finish her.
	Her nails scratch into the underside of the countertop.
	They get her up on the kitchen table on her knees, funky punishment-sandals over the edge of the table, her ass up in the air, bleeding tits pushing down into the flower-print place-mats.
	Viciously they attack her cane- and whip-slashed asscheeks with the basting forks, her thighs.
	They stab deeper.
	Kessler is up on a chair fucking her up the ass.  Riemann slaps her face.
	The stove flame is on and they are heating up a sharp steak knife which is propped up on the edge of the burner.
	Kessler holds her down by her wrists against the table as Riemann takes the red-hot blade.
	Slowly, deliberately, the killer carves the word FUCKSLUT on Julie’s
back as she wails, her cries muffled by Kessler’s cock in her throat.
	“Won’t fall off this time,” he snarls and sinks the hot blade into her
buttock.
	She gives out a sharp cry as Kessler rolls her over.
	On her back, her head dangling off the side of the table she’s forced to please both men as they take turns throat-fucking their slaughter whore.
	Trails of spit roll down the sides of her face into her eyes and hair as she is choked by their pumping phalluses, hard meat crammed up her windpipe, their hands clutching and gripping her by her collared throat, slapping her face and punching her chest.
	They back off leaving her in a daze and she rolls off the table to fall in a heap almost fainting, her blood spilling on the shiny finished-wood floor.
	Time blurs.
	The killers are getting dressed.
	“It’s almost noon,” Riemann says. “We have to get going.”
	Both men know that Kessler has told Robeson and Kirkwood to meet at the wooded area by the lake at twelve-thirty. The men have been told to bring Sandy with them as well as the necessary video-taping equipment to make the afternoon’s events memorable and profitable for all four sadistic bitch-killers. 
 	When they have their shoes on they take a few minutes to kick Julie around the kitchen.
	Kessler steps on the back of her neck holding her head against the wood planks while Riemann delivers several cruel toe-kicks into her savaged pussy.
	Kessler likes the way the word FUCKSLUT looks across her whip-welted and punch-bruised shoulder-blades.
	She is told to keep her legs open wide for Riemann’s kicks and she does so.
	The whore.
	Back in the bathroom she is made to stand, held up on her feet by Kessler’s hand around her slave-collared neck, slaughter-bitch made to gasp for air, the barbs in the sandals drawing blood from her whip-torn feet, and again the pins are driven into her pock-marked nipples, making her cry and babble and choke as Kessler tightens his grip. The barbed wire is tied around her tits and waist. The electrical dildos are thrust back into her raped holes and the plastic thong is pulled up her legs and tight against her crotch.  The black dress is forced down over her head.  
	 She sees herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. One of her eyes is black-bruised almost shut.  Her nose is darkly swollen, her nostrils drip blood and her lips are swollen and cut.  Her hair is in shambles and smeared with gore.  Her shoulders are all she can see in the mirror, cut and scratched, and she knows that dark violet bruises are blooming all over her body.  She can feel the word Riemann carved on her back, the burned flesh swelling painfully.
	FUCKSLUT.
	It is the word that best describes and most perfectly defines her.
	She notices that Billy’s body is not in the tub anymore.
	She has a vague memory of the killers hacking Tim and Billy to pieces on the bathroom floor with hand axes and stuffing the pieces into three large trash bags.
	Her shoes track blood, feet dragging weakly, as she is made to walk out to the hallway, past the kitchen, back to the van in the garage.
	Kessler is moving from room to room in the house with the green knapsack in his hands from which electrical wire strands now spill like Medusa snakes.
	“You’re sure about that shit, right?” Riemann asks.
	“Count on it.” the other man replies. Riemann does not know that demolition was Kessler’s gig back in the Nam but he trusts the man’s obvious
know-how.
	Then they are all in the van, Julie again bound in the rear, her chin resting on the back of the seat in front of her, and they are driving away.
	The three dark brown, jumbo-sized trashbags are stuffed into the aisle
between the front and middle seats and they’ve been neatly tied off with
white plastic strips.
	The men have taken off their white rubber gloves.
	Two blocks from the house Julie sees Riemann turn.  There is black box in his hand. She thinks it is the remote control for the dildos inside her and she
steels herself for the electrical bursts.  Instead there is a hard whumping explosion back up the block.
	The Winnfried house explodes in a fiery orange blur blowing out windows in the whole block.
	“Perfect,” Kessler comments calmly.
	Riemann smiles.
	Tim’s Honda in the garage bursts into flames and before the first fire alarm even sounds the house behind them is a pile of burning rubble.
	With a sinking feeling Julie now realizes no trace of her or her family
will ever be found.
	The van with the tinted windows drives away, out of town, toward route 21 toward Talon Lake, unnoticed.
	The final day of slaughter is now well under way.

25. Darla, Karyn and Sandy

(Men who rape little girls and kill them are at the top of the sado-killer food chain.  Perceived as a sick and cowardly act by most of society the taking of a child’s life is instead proof of the most intense courage.  It requires that the killer asks himself who he really is and what demon has possesed him that he can slowly drain the life energy away from an innocent and underserving victim.  Certainly a psychotic will never ask or answer such self inquiry.  A true bitch-killer, a true child-bitch-killer who is not functioning from a distorted, psychotic frame of mind is a direct link to the primitive warring males of pre-history.  He is the true savage, a clear primal soul who metes out destruction and is a well-spring of evil.  He is truly a creature of the dark side, a meritorious lieutenant of the underworld.)

	At the Vanner warehouse Robeson and Kessler had been busy.
	While Darla hung by her cuffed wrists, legs wide apart, each ankle dangling from a chain attached to overhead hooks in the ceiling,  Karyn was
forced to kneel in front of her.  
	Earlier, Robeson had pried the nails out of the redhead’s tits, freeing her from the torture table in the holding cell, to drag her into the experimental killing chamber where he and Kirkwood and Kessler had beaten the bleeding bitch with thick wooden dowels chasing her all around the room until she’d tripped over Ann Rowen’s severed head and fallen under a hail of thudding blows. Robeson and Kessler had double fucked the Whitehall businesswoman on the floor with their barbed cocks while Kirkwood hacked little Ann Rowen’s cadaver to pieces with a machete. Darla had watched, hanging on the chains, her tits and cunt and asshole burned out, her mind lost. Before attaching Karyn by her tongue to Darla’s cunt-lips with sharp metal hooks and wires the killers had stuffed Ann Rowen’s mutilated limbs into the tortured women’s accesible openings.  With some difficulty they’d crammed Ann’s little hand into Karyn’s cunt, severed arm first, and a piece of her lanky leg up the redhead’s burned out, bleeding anus.  They’d shoved one of Ann’s footless legs up to the knee in Darla’s bleeding asshole and the small arched foot in the big-titted blonde’s mouth as she hung on the chains babbling, gagging, wide-eyed, and then they’d dragged Karyn up on her knees to secure her to the hanging blonde.
	A pair of the small hooks had been driven through Darla’s charred pussy lips and another pair through Karyn’s tongue, which the brunnette had obediently stuck out for Kessler to pierce, while Darla’s small feet twitched on the dangling chains in response to the redhead’s anguished cries, kicking more violently as the hooks were driven through her own pussy-skin.
	The killers had stood framing the ravaged beaten sobbing women now hook-chained together, cunt to mouth, and passed around Ann Rowen’s little heart, then her gashed liver, each one taking a bite of raw girlmeat, devouring the murdered child’s flesh while the horrified women groaned, sobbed and chanted their extreme pain and suffering, Darla finally unable to contain herself, pissing a hot stream of urine right into Karyn’s up-turned face.
	Then Kessler had told Kirkwood and Robeson to continue without him and while he had gone upstairs to join Riemann in the torture of Julie and Sandy in the main torture chamber the two killers had picked up long single-tail whips with tiny spike-blades on them and flogged the two women bloody.  
	Darla’s head had rocked back, her screams muffled by Ann Rowen’s sliced off foot, the child’s severed ankle in her mouth, toes pointing upward toward the blonde’s forehead, as if somehow the butchered child had been swallowed whole by the big-titted blonde and was now attempting a cartoon-like escape into Darla’s body. The piece of Ann’s severed leg protruded obscenely from Darla’s bleeding ass.  Karyn had bounced on her knees, Ann’s hand sticking out of her cunthole as if hailing the killers from Karyn’s womb while the razor-whip had cut into the real-estate woman’s already severely beaten body, Ann’s leg crammed ankle first up Karyn’s barb-raped anus.
	The men laughed at the hideous sight of the two women stuffed with  mutilated child-limbs and tore at the females unmercifully with their whips.
	They’d paused only to empty their bladders on Karyn’s face and hair, on her bleeding back, and then they’d resumed the harsh whipping.
	Finally they’d yanked the child’s body parts from the tortured women and tossed them in a heap with what was left of Ann Rowen in the corner of the room and they spiked Ann Rowen’s head on a spear pole which they positioned over
the dismembered, disemboweled carcass like a marker.
	By then Kessler’s voice had come over the intercom inviting them upstairs to rape Julie’s daughter and amuse themselves in whatever non-lethal ways they
could with her until he and Riemann returned.
	So when Kessler and Riemann were gone Kirkwood and Robeson had raped Sandy violently on the bed in the main killing chamber for nearly an hour thrusting their cocks into the whipped sobbing ten-year old, stuffing her with as much man-meat as she could handle making her nearly pass out, drawing blood from both her holes, shoving as much cockmeat in her mouth and down her throat as was physically possible. Neither man had ever fucked a child that young and when their unrepressed lust soon reached a boiling point they’d carried her down to the experimental killing chamber.
	There they’d roped her to a post by her neck, ankles and wrists, on her feet, the same post Darla Bessinger had first been bound to when Kessler and Kirkwood had burned her out with spears.
	The two Whitehall sluts still hung in their hellish torment, chain-hooked to each other, the brunnette kneeling in a puddle of blood and piss between the suspended blonde’s legs.
	In the corner, Ann Rowen’s head looked on, spear-spiked.
	Sandy hung against the post, dazed and unresponsive.
	The room was a mess of blood and gore.
	Robeson and Kirkwood treated themselves to a couple of Corona beers from a crate in the refrigerated chamber down the hall. They popped some amphetamines did a couple of lines of coke and came back, bottles in hand, to stride around Darla and Karyn admiring the brutal handiwork.
	“We’re gonna cut you stinking cunts to pieces,” Robeson told the barely conscious slaughterwhores between sips of Corona. “Cut you up, cook you and eat you.”
	Kirkwood laughed, reached out and squeezed Darla’s spear-burned, punch-bruised bleeding tits.
	“Shit,” he exclaimed. “We got tit-steaks for a week from this whore.”
	“Yeah,” Robeson grinned.  “Looks like they’ve been well tenderized already too. I bet her liver will be juicy.”
	“Like that fuckin’ hitchiker we did last May.”
	“Mmm yeah.   Fried in onions and wine, the way Mike does it.  Just fucking perfect.”
	“I bet we’ll end up barbecueing that little Rowen bitch in the freezer.”
	“That would be real nice. Hell I could chow down on that little bitch’s thighs with no problem.”
	“And this one,” Robeson said grabbing Karyn’s head by her hair to angle it upward so he could look into her burned out face as he downed another gulp of beer. “I want this one’s tongue and her eyes.” He spat out a gulp of beer on Karyn’s face and she grunted, blinded by the stinging fluid, her tongue stretching as she pulled away from the hook-lines that held her to Darla’s pussy, before being yanked back with a squeal. 
	“Hmm. She’s got real pretty eyes. Nice ass too.  We’ll get a nice rump roast out of her.”
	“Why don’t we get us a taste now?” Kirkwood asked.
	“Sounds fine to me.”
	The killers put down their bottles.
	Darla and Karyn whinnied and shook in their bondage.
	The words of the killers had brought their horror to a new level.  Not only were they going to die atrociously, broken and humiliated, but they were going to be cannibalized as well.
	Kirkwood took a knife from the cabinet and heated it on the still smouldering charcoal grill where the spears that had been used on the women were propped.
	Ann Rowen’s head looked on.
	Sandy Winnfried drooled, head angled down, unresponsive, as she hung from the post.
	When the knife was hot Kirkwood took it and moved toward Karyn who
shook and tried to cower from him but was unable to move.
	Robeson watched the other bitch-killer bend down to stab the knife deep into Karyn’s whipped ass-globe.   He felt a rewarding surge in his cock as the female screamed in pain her lips hook-snagged on Darla’s pussy.
	Kirkwood gouged out a piece of assmeat and offered it to Robeson.
	A rich flow of blood bubbled from the deep cut on Karyn’s butt and on to her calves.
	Robeson took it and popped it in his mouth, chewing slowly.
	“Mmmm - yesss,” he grunted.
	The taste of womanflesh made him dizzy, made his prick boom powerfully.
	Kirkwood stabbed the woman again and as she squealed and jerked he
gouged out a piece for himself bringing it to his lips with the knife.
	More blood flowed from the redhead oozing down on to her heels and feet.
	“Let’s try the other one,” Kirkwood suggested.
	He moved to Darla.
	The blonde was quivering and shaking her head, arms upbound, hands
clenched.
	“No, pleease,” she pleaded.  Her chains rattled against the hooks in the ceiling.
	“Why don’t you do the honors,” Kirkwood said handing the knife to Robeson, ignoring Darla completely.
	“Be glad to.”
	Robeson jabbed the hot knife-blade into the blonde’s rump pushing it in hard, almost an inch into soft plush meat.
	“Aaiieeeee!” Darla wailed, her suspended leg kicking out, foot waggling, chain rattling, blood pulsing around the knifeblade and trickling down the underside of her thigh to drip off her knee-hollow. Karyn’s tongue was tugged forward as the blonde arched her back and surged up toward the ceiling.
	Robeson gripped her hip while he carved a biteful of flesh from her and passed it to Kirkwood.
	The other man took it and tossed it into his mouth picking up the beer bottle to slug back a hit and wash down the raw slutmeat.
	“Ye-ahh,” he exclaimed, licking his lips. “Better than I thought for an uptight aerobicized little rich fuck.”
	“Let’s see,” Robeson said concentrating as he plunged the knife in once more, just to the left of the now bleeding gash.
	Darla screeched once more as a piece of her was cut out and blood trickled off her raped pussy and the back of her suspended thighs.  Again, Karyn’s face was yanked by her hook-pierced cunt and she howled in pain.
	Robeson tilted his head back and dropped the sliver of Darla’s assflesh into his mouth.
	“Mmm,” he grunted. “I do believe these cunts are going to provide a couple of serious meals over the next few days.”
	He took his beer and finished it in one gulp then put the empty bottle back on the table.
	He walked across the room to Sandy.
	“I bet this little morsel tastes nice too,” he said rubbing his cock against the child’s nipples and tracing her shoulder with the tip of the bloody knife-blade.
	Sandy moaned weakly.
	The women sobbed and looked at the floor.  They already knew what had happened to two female children here. They couldn’t bear to watch a third ghastly infanticide.
	Kirkwood swigged on his beer and put the bottle down on the floor. 
	“I bet she does,” he told Robeson. “But you know we have plans for the little bunny. Why don’t we play with her for a bit.  We can burn her with cigarettes. That won’t spoil her too much for later.”
	“Well - Just a little taste...” Robeson muttered pushing the tip of the knife into the child’s shoulder.
	Sandy cried out and jerked against the ropes that held her to the post but as the killer leaned down to lick up her blood she stopped struggling.
	“Mmmm,” Robeson moaned. “Hea-ven-ly.”
	As he stood back up, Sandy’s blood moved down his chin.  He cut the whip-marked child free of the ropes and led her to the other side of the room.
	“Cigarettes - that sounds real good, Bill,” he said sliding down to sit on a wooden chair near the wall.  A strand of barbed wire lay tangled on the floor.  He reached down, picked it up and tied Sandy’s wrists behind her back with it making the barbs gouge into the child’s skin.
	“Oww!” she cried. “It hurts - hurtss!”
	“Yeah, bitch,” he replied. “Hurts real bad, don’t it?”
	Kirkwood found the cigarettes and the lighter in the drawer of the torture table.
	He came over and gave Robeson one of the Marlboros he’d lit up.  He kept the other one and moved back to the opposite side of the room as he drew on it.
	“Let’s make the little fuck walk back and forth from you to me,” he said, a cloud of exhaled smoke circling around him. “Make it more interesting.” As he reached the other side of the chamber he pulled open a wooden folding chair that leaned on the wall and he too sat down.
	“We’re gonna play a little game, sweetie,” Robeson told Julie’s daughter turning her in the direction of the other nude killer, drawing on his cigarette.  She looked back at him in a daze. Blood dripped down her arm from where he’d cut her.  She wondered where the dragon man had gone.  Billy and daddy were dead. These were the dragon man’s friends and they’d all captured her mommy and now there was nothing for her but to obey, to play this odd game they wanted her to play.  If she went along that maybe they wouldn’t put their big peepees in her any more to break her open like they did upstairs in that big room where
they’d chained her and mommy by their tongues to beat them, where that dead lady lay all broken by the wall.
	Robeson smiled, took the cigarette and pushed it into Sandy’s little buttcheek.
	“Oo-owww!” she squealed.
	He held her by her arm and pressed the burning tip into her once more right into the middle of a whip-welt.
	The child tried to shrink away screeching in pain.
	“You’re gonna walk to Bill, now,” Robeson told her. “You hear me? Walk to Bill or we’ll burn your little eyes out.”
	She started to cry and nod her head.
	He let her go and she walked slowly toward Kirkwood who sat expectantly on the other side of the room. She walked past Darla and Karyn in their chain-hooked bondage, past the ghastly slaughter that had once been Ann Rowen, Sandy’s small feet shuffling on the cold gore-strewn floor.  
	The horrified child looked at the floor. She didn’t want to see that other little girl’s head stuck on the stick.
	When she got to Kirkwood he drew her to him.
	Slowly he smeared his lips on her petite mouth holding her between his strong thighs.
	Sandy whined softly but did nothing to fight him off.
	She was completely posessed by terror and as the killer’s tongue slid past her lips and his hot sour beer-breath filled her nostrils she shut her eyes tightly, sweat drops moving down her face.
	Her wrists, bound behind her with the barbed wire that pricked blood from her skin, tugged, moved slightly, and her little fingers rippled as the sadist slowly and sickly french-kissed her.
	Across the room Robeson licked his lips and felt his balls swell as he watched his sadistic partner kiss Sandy.  It was sickly thrilling to see a grown naked man totally engulf a little girl in such a sexually obscene embrace and it added to the heady feeling of power he was already feeling.
	Kirkwood pulled back and lifted the cigarette to his lips holding Sandy
by one shoulder to keep her from moving away.
	When the tip of the cigarette glowed bright red he took it between thumb and forefinger and brought it to the child’s chest.
	He watched her face closely as he burned her pressing the cigarette into her little nipples over and over, smoke drifting up from her, little black circles
etched on her pink skin as she cried and squealed.
	Kirkwood held the child steady.
	From across the room Robeson watched slowly stroking his cock, leaning forward in the creaking chair.
	He puffed on his cigarette, smiling, eyes slitted, waiting for his turn.
	Darla and Karyn, in the center of the killing room, in their own ghastly and agonizing torment tried not to watch, but their eyes were drawn to the ingenious torture of the young female at the hands of the killers. 
	Ann Rowen’s lifeless blue eyes looked on, lovely in mutilated death.
	Kirkwood swung the child around to face Robeson.
	“Stan has something for you, baby,” he told her softly. “Go to Stan.”
	Again, reluctantly, she began to walk across the room toward the greedy-eyed man who waited for her, the glowing cigarette in his lips.
	She stopped in front of him and he waited.
	What did he have for her, she thought innocently.
	Slowly, Robeson took the cigarette from his lips and pushed it into the shallow dip of her belly button his strong hand at her shoulder as her knees bent and she tried weakly to wriggle away.
	He turned her around and pressed the cigarette into the palm of her little bound hand behind her and then into her shoulder.
	When she had quieted down a bit he pushed her in Kirkwood’s direction.
	“Walk,” he told her.
	She moved heartbreakingly across the killing room toward Kirkwood who again hungrily pushed his lips into her trembling mouth moaning with dark lust.
	He held her there between his legs, his cock pressing into her belly, and he pushed his cigarette into her tiny pubis and lower belly while her lips opened against his and she bawled.
	He hocked a wad of spit in her open mouth and she choked and coughed.
	He swung her around and pushed her toward Robeson.
	“Move.”
	Robeson smiled and stroked himself as he watched her approach, sobbing pitifully, Kirkwood’s phlegm drooling from her lips.
	He took her by her hair and pressed the cigarette into her ear-lobe then he slapped her hard across the face holding her by her arm as she started to tip over.
	Drawing deeply on the cigarette until it was bright crimson he took it from his lips and scored seven burns on her belly and two on her neck and one
on her forehead.  Then he swung the screaming child around and pushed her toward Kirkwood.
	“Walk, bitch!”
	“Goddamn it, Bill,” he snarled. “Pretty soon I’m gonna have to rape her again or do something with those two whores.  I’m burning up.”
	“I hear you,” Kirkwood replied.
	As Sandy reached him he took her shoulder and turned her halfway around.
	“Give me your little foot,” he snarled drawing on the cigarette.
	“Noooo!” she squealed.
	“Lift it up for me - ”
	“Noooo!”
	His hand squeezed her little shoulder like a steel vise.
	“Yes.”
	With sobs that shook her whole body Sandy unwillingly raised her foot off the floor and bent her knee back to stand one-legged as Kirkwood pressed the smouldering, half-gone cigarette deep into the sole of her small upraised limb.
As Sandy shrieked and wailed he burned three black circles into the furrowed
foot-sole and two into the little heel before she put her foot back down.
	“Bring it back up,” he growled. “I’m not finished with it yet.”
	She shook her head but after a few moments as his eyes glared meanly at her she obeyed.
	He sucked fire into the cigarette tip and then drew circles of burning
red into the child’s upturned foot, into her toes, into her ankle and into her calf.
	He turned her in Robeson’s direction.
	“C’mere, you little shit,” Robeson grinned with sly malevolence. “Uncle
Stan’s waiting.”
	Sandy hobbled back toward the other killer, her burned foot hurting as she put her weight on it, the barbed wire gouging into her wrists behind her back.
	“Please,” Darla pleaded. “Don’t - don’t hurt the child anymore.”
	“Shut the fuck up,” Kirkwood told her. “Your words count for nothing here and if you speak again I’ll slash your tongue out of your head, you stinking
shitbag.”
	He watched Robeson touch the tip of the cigarette to Sandy’s thighs and
knees.
	The little girl gave out high-pitched squeals of pain.
	“This is our world, bitch,” he told Darla as he rose half way off the chair to pick up the Corona from the floor and swig down what was left.  He took the cigarette-lighter and flicked the flame on to hold it against the long slender neck of the Corona bottle.
	“We do what WE want here. What WE want, WHEN we want.” 
	Robeson was pushing the little girl back toward him.
	“Come and get it, honey,” he snarled at Sandy as she hobbled slowly back toward him, her eyes wide with fear and anticipation as she watched him heating up the bottle.
	She stopped about five feet from him.
	“No!” she moaned. “Pleeeeeease!”
	“C’mere, pumpkin.”
	She hung her head and cried.
	“C’mon, you little fuck - keep walking - come to uncle Bill.”
	“You’re gonna hurt me!” she protested weakly.
	“You got that right.I’m gonna give you what you deserve you little scumbag. Now, walk.”
	The bound child’s shoulders shook with sobs.  Some of the ugly burns on her had started to swell up and Kirkwood knew she had to be hurting. It pleased him to see the ten year old in such pain but he wanted to make it worse for her. Much worse. His cock was hard as steel and throbbing as he put down the lighter.   	The blackened spout-tip of the bottle glowed and smouldered.
	Across the room Robeson watched jerking off, his face slack, pupils dilated.
	Sandy finally took the last few steps toward Kirkwood, still looking down at the floor, not daring to lift her eyes, trembling.
	He put his large hand on her head and gripped her hair tightly.
	She whimpered.
	“Spread your legs apart,” he said.
	The day was going well for Kirkwood.  He’d killed one sweet angel already and now he was going to make this one hurt real bad.  This one was special, so small and pretty, so deserving of his deepest foulest cruelty.  He couldn’t wait to really let go with her and he knew that would happen later, out by the lake, while the mother watched.  All four of them would really let go on her then and he was seriously going to enjoy that. He only wished it was his daughter Leanne they would lay into. Just as before when he’d slowly butchered little Ann Rowen Kirkwood fantasized that the child before him now was his own flesh and blood, his darling Leanne.
	Sandy obeyed the killer slowly, her burned foot stinging as she dragged it across the floor, leaving a small black ash-smear behind, cute even in her suffering.
	“Wider,” he whispered, his mouth near her cheek.
	She felt his hot breath, gulped and cried softly as she opened her legs apart, her knees shivering, tears and snot dripping from her chin.
	He brought the bottle up underneath her, aimed upward, as his lips grazed hers. He moved her head toward him, tipping her forward slightly, opening his mouth wide to position his teeth over her warm little neck.
	As he bit into her he slammed the neck of the bottle up into her raped pussy slit.
	“Yeahhh!” Robeson shouted.
	Sandy shrieked wildly and tried to bring her legs together and pull away.
	The hot glass seared into her baby cunt, hissing.
	She tried to bend or twist out of the way but Kirkwood held her in place, his teeth buried in her neck, gouging out fresh blood as he pushed the bottle deep into the helpless wrist-bound child.
	When he released her she toppled back and folded into a fetal position screaming, unable to expel the bottle, her legs kicking frenziedly.
	Darla and Karyn turned their heads away with choked off sobs.
	Robeson got up from the chair took the empty bottle of Corona he’d left on the table and came toward the fallen victim.
	“Give me that lighter,” he said roughly.
	Kirkwood handed it to him, watched him heat up the neck of the bottle, jerked off and leaned back in the creaking chair, strong legs wide apart, one hand squeezing his balls.  He wasn’t far from coming but he was going to try to hold back until later if he could.
	Robeson went down on one knee.
	When he’d super-heated the bottle he put the lighter down and rolled
Sandy over on her side reaching down to pry open her little buns. The other Corona bottle was wedged deep in her pussyhole, labia burned and purple
all around the invading glass shaft.
	The child continued to wail her misery, her face pressed to the floor.
	Darla and Karyn cried fitfully, empathetically, for the tortured ten-year- old.  Blood trickled down Karyn’s chin from her pierced tongue as the women shook, racked with sobs.
	Holding the little girl by her hip Robeson now pushed the heated neck of his beer bottle into Sandy’s raped asshole.
	She jerked and spasmed to the new invasion her voice reaching for the stratosphere, her head snapping back, her body shaking as Robeson pushed
the bottle inward mercilessly, filling her little anal passage with sizzling
hissing glass.
	When he was finished he rose and stood over her watching her writhing and twisting, rolling over from left to right, screaming, the two bottles buried in her, clinking together as she bounced around.  He stood directly over her and
she rolled back and forth in the arc under his legs as he stroked himself hard, breathing fast.
	“Go for it,” Kirkwood urged jerking off and watching Robeson about
to cum. “Do it.”
	“Uhhh!” Robeson grunted, tilting his head back.
	The sound of Sandy’s wailing agony, the sight of her impaled on the bottles, her little arms barbed-wire bound behind her, was swelling his balls powerfully.  
	He slid down to his knees over her and swung her on her back on top of her bound wrists.  He sat on her chest looking down at her, jerking himself off with fast hard strokes, feeling the sperm about to squeeze up his long aching shaft.
	On the chair behind him Kirkwood watched, a gloating smile on his face, squeezing his cockhead in his fist with slow up-pumping motions, delighting
in the tingling fullness of his erection but not working toward orgasm, enjoying his partner’s pleasure instead and the suffering of the little victim now helpless under the crushing weight of a man three times her size.
	Sandy looked up at Robeson almost unable to breathe as the killer rose slightly to aim his cock right at her face.
	“Open your mouth, you little shitt!” he snarled furiously. “Open it!”
	There was no other option for the tortured ten year old and as she obeyed
Robeson came with a loud shout pissing a thick jet of white creamy cum right
down her throat. Two more bursts of cum exploded from him before she
started choking, eyes wide with surprise.  She’d never expected a man’s thing do that and the salty bitterness startled her. She remembered vaguely that the dragon man had done something to her in front of her dying father but she had not seen it up close. It had been inside her.  She had felt it on her butt and thighs.
Now she burned inside from the bottles and she tried to swallow the hot cream
from the bad man’s peepee and she cried because it all hurt and she was sore
all over and she wondered where momma was.   The murdered girl’s head was
staring at her from across the room and those two women were crying and the man on the creaking chair who called himself uncle Bill was smiling and stroking his big thing and rocking as the hot stuff in her mouth choked her and went up her nose inside as she gagged and the bad man Stan squeezed out more of the
liquid on her lips and cheeks, another thick spurt in her eye and hair, another
one on her bitten neck and burned shoulder. ‘Slut’ he was saying, ‘Little slut,’ and ‘Take it in your mouth,’ and she was trying to obey, trying to be a good girl,
playing the bad men’s game that hurt her and burned her all over and he was
shoving his peepee into her mouth and it tasted stinky and slimy and she
choked and gagged and he laughed and called her a stupid bitch  and then somewhere outside that terrible room a phone was ringing and the man in the chair was getting up.
	Robeson stood up slowly and shook the last drops of cum out on the crying child.
	Kirkwood came back.
	“It was Mike,” he told Robeson. “They’re finished with the Winnfried house. They’re on their way to the lake.”
	Robeson leaned down and took a hold of the beer bottles in Sandy, one in each hand.  He yanked them out of her simultaneously and they came free
with a loud popping sound that sent the child into another twisting wailing
tantrum, dark blood and piss spilling out of her as she rolled over on her belly.
	Robeson tossed the bottles aside and untied the barbed wire that held
Sandy’s wrists behind her back.  The child’s arms slid down to  her sides and
she lay there weakly on her belly. After a few minutes she had tired herself out and was sniffling weakly.
	The killers moved about, left the killing room and came back.
	Sandy drifted close to unconsciousness then felt herself being picked up and saw that the killers were now dressed in jeans and t-shirts and sneakers.
	“Should we cut the whores free and stick them in the cell?” Robeson asked slinging Sandy over his shoulder.
	A large duffle bag was dangling from Kirkwood’s hand.
	He looked over at Darla and Karyn who still hung in agonizing bondage, hooked to each other, the redhead’s tongue to the blonde’s pussy, their bodies decimated by the whips.
	“Fuck that,” answered meanly. “Let them hang there until we come back.”
	Robeson chuckled.
	“Yeah. Too bad if they don’t live that long.”
	Then both killers left the room taking Sandy with them. and the door slid shut behind them.
	Darla’s head toppled forward weakly.
	Karyn sobbed quietly and tried not to look at the dismembered head of Ann Rowen which stared hauntingly at them from the corner of the killing chamber. She tried to hold back a sudden sensation of warm pressure in her bladder but after a few seconds she succumbed and began to piss blood.  It ran in red rivulets down the insides of her thighs and on to her whip-slashed calves.

	
	
26. Talon Lake
(1 PM Monday, Talon Lake)

	“Put your neck in it.”
	Riemann’s voice was eeriely calm.
	He stood in front of Julie, the rope noose in both hands, holding it open for her.
	She tottered dizzily in her torture sandals in the carpet of pine needles, her eyes defeated and downcast.
	Obediently, she leaned forward and raised her head, looking straight ahead, making no eye-contact with her cruel master. 
	He tightened the knot and stepped away to pull on the other end of the rope hauling her up on her toes, noose tight on her neck, hands cuffed behind her.
	She struggled for breath, one bruised eye almost completely closed, her once lovely face a veritable mess of bruises and cuts, her nose twisted slightly to one side and partly swollen, dried blood trailing from her nostrils, the breeze riffling her tangled hair.
	The word ‘FUCKSLUT’ was now a scrawl of dry blood across her back.
	Her one melancholy brown eye and the slit of the other one reflected the wide expanse of water that was Talon lake, shimmering in the noon sun and the green woods that circled it.
	This land, nearly five hundred acres, was owned by Kessler.  It was far from the roads that crossed through the area and kept from trespassers by a twelve foot high fence with razor wire that enclosed the property.
	Julie was naked now.  The black plastic thong, metal torture dildos, party dress, slave collar were all gone and the sight of her beaten, tortured, lacerated, bruised, whip-ravaged body was breath-taking.  It was hard to believe that a human female body could endure such torture and still be able to stand. But as a student of medicine Riemann knew the bitch could take much more.  She was strong and healthy and she was going to give her four killers a lot of pleasure before her life energy would be fully spent.
	Again the pins had been pulled from her nipples and the barbed wire unwound from her tits and from around her waist.  Hundreds of small wounds inflicted back at the kitchen of the Winnfried house with the sharp-tined basting forks had been imprinted in her flesh, hundreds of blood-points like small towns on the larger roadmap of anguish that was her punished skin.  The letters carved on her had stopped bleeding and were now raw and scabbed, an ugly hateful scrawl that well described Julie’s precipitous fall from grace.  
	The word on her back now adequately and fully defined her.
	She gulped open-mouthed for air, moaned, cheeks flushed, as Riemann tied off the free end of the rope.
	She was exactly where he wanted her, full of life but hurting and on the edge of death.
	He had positioned her at the border of the small clearing so that she could watch the preparations for the afternoon’s activities.
	The men were all naked and their strong bodies gleamed sweatily in the sunlight.
	She watched them move back and forth, to and from a windowless wooden shed in the shade of the trees across the field. From this squat dilapitated building they brought out and assembled a large black wooden frame and an X cross, hoisting the structures up in the middle of the clearing. Beside the cross and the frame, just beneath the strong broad branches of an oak, they erected a small wooden platform, some five-and-a-half feet high. Leading up to the platform they mounted a heavy wooden ramp that was festooned with clusters of half-inch spikes. A separate block which consisted of three stair-steps led up to the platform from the opposite side. 
	Julie did not remember seeing this ramp or the platform in any of the snuff-videos Kessler had shown her on the first night of her captivity.  She guessed they had been built specially for her and her daughter.
	Julie wondered how many men would watch later, after she and Sandy were nothing but rotting meat, on their televisions at home, privately, stroking themselves to climax as mother and daughter were viciously ripped apart.  How many men would go about their daily lives, outwardly moral law-abiding citizens, even members of church groups and city planning commissions, religious and governmental institutions, waiting only for a moment of escape in some darkened room, blinds drawn, doors locked to watch? How many males in positions of power, in industry and legislature, would view Bloody Snuff #4 and enjoy a few stolen minutes of orgasmic pleasure that no female in their circle could ever provide? Were it known, in fact, that such men were viewing such obscene misogyinistic material their careers surely would end in scandal and outrage. Paradoxically, only those men in power, among the thousands of individuals who would possess the video, were in a position to change things, to put an end to the humiliation and debasing torture, the sadistic slavery and ritual-killing of women and children throughout the world. But they would do nothing. After the orgasm would spend itself in them they would be a little ashamed. They would convince themselves that the torture and killing were not real, just special effects, and they would go back about their business as if nothing had happened. Until the need to watch would make them go back to the private room, away from the eyes of civilized society, to return to the fraternity of killers that has existed from time immemorial, male destroying female for the sheer mind-blowing pleasure of it.
 	When the killers were finished with the construction of the torture ramp out in the clearing she saw them bring several heavy cinder blocks to lay them on the grass next to the wooden structure. Then they brought out a large plastic crate and put it on the ground next to the ramp and they set up the three video-cams  taken from the green duffel bag Kirkwood had brought from the warehouse mounting the cams on tripods, all aimed a central area that encompassed the ramp, the frame and the cross.  They set up a deep black cauldron grill and Julie felt a chill as  she saw them drop a bag of charcoal in it, light a fire and prop what appeared to her to be medieval torture implements in the grill’s flames, a pair of spiked tongs, long carbonized dildo-shaped metal rods, spear-tipped shafts.
	She saw the killers Kirkwood and Robeson dig a shallow grave in the mud at the edge of the lake, muscles rippling on their arms and backs and legs as they worked. She knew they would toss the remains of Billy and Tim, still tied off in the trash bags into the muddy grave. Earlier, in the van, she’d heard Kessler say that  Sandy would eventually lie there too, with her dad and her brother.
	As Riemann had noted for her benefit with a cynical sneer: the family that fucked together, died together. 
	And yet Julie, the principal victim, would die alone.  As the killer had pointed out she did not deserve her family.  She was a worthless fuckslut as the word burn-etched on her back conclusively stated.  She would be buried behind the Vanner warehouse like all the other slaughter-sluts that had served Kessler and his men.
	The soft breeze coming off the lake gently caressed her punished body.
	Her mind tuned in and out intermittenly as the noose gently but firmly choked her.
	The men had left their vehicles at the end of the dirt-road that led into Kessler’s property, some ten yards from the wooden shed by the trees and now,
broken hearted, Julie watched as Riemann and Kessler brought her raped and beaten daughter Sandy out of Kirkwood’s black pickup. They had her on a leash like a dog, a small tight collar around her neck and they made her crawl to the center of the clearing right in front of her mother.
	Julie watched crying and gasping for breath as Riemann pulled the child up on her feet.
	“Mommaaa!” Sandy cried as soon as she saw her mom on the end of the rope-noose just a few yards away.
	Julie could see that since she’d last been with her daughter Sandy’s torture had continued. There were small burn marks all over her as well as the whip welts she’d witnessed the killers inflict on her back at the warehouse.  The child’s mons was darkly swollen.  The memory of Sandy hanging over her, their tongues hooked together was hazy in Julie’s mind but she could clearly feel the metal stud Riemann had just recently pierced through the hole the hook had left in her own tongue.  It scraped against the roof of her mouth.  He had put the stud in her after he’d stripped her naked, cuffed her hands behind her and walked her to the edge of the clearing. A similar stud, Riemann told her, had already been pushed into Sandy’s tongue.  Now they were mother and daughter tramps, Riemann had chuckled as tears spilled down Julie’s beaten cheeks.  Mother and daughter tramps just like all the cheap gothic-tattooed cock-sucking sluts in the x-rated videos, ready to serve their killer masters.
	“Muhhhmmm!” Sandy shouted trying to get Julie’s attention and her shout was brought up short as Kessler seized her by both arms from behind and Riemann slugged the child’s belly hard, repeatedly. Julie sobbed brokenly, tried to plead with the killers but found she couldn’t make a sound because the rope noose was stifling her voice-box.  The sight of the two powerful naked sadistic men attacking her dog-leashed ten year old was hard to bear, even harder here on this Eden-like landscape than it had been in the Vanner warehouse. She could hear the thumps of their blows and the breathless groans of her unfortunate daughter all the way across the clearing. Riemann actually had to bend down to punch Sandy because she was so short.  Her head barely came up to his waist. And Julie knew how hard those blows were because she had been on the receiving end of the killers’ fury less than an hour ago.
	She watched, dismayed, as Kessler and Riemann traded places, Kessler’s fists ramming into the child’s belly and chest.  Sandy’s cries were cut short by the blows and a gulp of blood spilled from her lips as Kessler’s fists crunched into her tender rib-cage. It was clear that the killers were not holding back.  They were venting unchecked aggressive force on their defenseless victim. 
	The child’s tongue furtively appeared between her lips and Julie saw the stud that had been stabbed through it.  It looked completely out of place in Sandy’s innocent mouth.
	Helplessly, she watched the sadists use Sandy as a punching bag pulling her about by the leash, sometimes hauling her right off her kicking feet, dangling the choking child in mid air to punch her suspended body. And she knew this beating was just foreplay to them, brutal inhuman foreplay.
	When Robeson and Kirkwood finished digging they joined in the beating of the tortured ten year old and soon all four killers were tossing and yanking Sandy back and forth like a rag doll from one to the other, laughing, smacking her around, punching her, kicking her and eventually ass-raping her in the dirt, pushing her little bleeding face into the ground, into the scrub grass, making her squeal and scream as they rammed into her. After almost a half hour of that they got her up on her knees and began pushing their big cocks in her face, one male holding her up by her shoulders while the others circled her, the child forced to suck manmeat, her little studded tongue providing sweet arousal for her wild-eyed tormentors. The destruction of their underaged victim brought out the most intense viciousness in the men.  All their pent-up violence was being released on this one small cherub. She was being forced to take all they could give and as the raping and the beating went on Julie realized how considerable that would be.
	Kessler went to the van and returned with black hoods for the men.
	These were not like the ones Julie had seen them wear in the warehouse.
	They were scarier.
	They covered the heads of the killers completely, making them appear like
inhuman creatures, robotic, faceless, with slits for their eyes and nose and mouth.
	One of the figures, probably Kessler, Julie thought, went to the cameras, turning them on, aiming them at the action in the center of the clearing as the other three continued to rape and beat Sandy.
	Now that the killers were masked the only one Julie could recognize was Riemann because of the colorful dragon tatoo on his back.  Later, in post-production at the Vanner warehouse, images of Riemann’s distinguishing marks would be carefully edited out on the video-tapes so that no trace of incriminating identification could ever be seen.
	Julie watched as the killers sadistically violated her daughter, three of them holding the dog-leashed child down on the grass, one of them at her wrists held together over her head, one at each of her legs keeping her spread wide while the fourth rode and banged her, the four killers switching places so they all had their turn.  Rolling her over on her belly when they tired of pussy-fucking her they butt-raped her again, punched their fists into her back, choked her and smeared her cheeks into the grass.  They dragged her crawling to the edge of the lake pulling on the leash as she wailed in pain and they pressed her face into the muddy pebble-strewn shore under the water to drown her while they crouched over her fucking her, letting her come up for air just before she would pass out. They took her out into deeper water surrounding her, fucking her as she clung to them, her legs around their waist, her bright bird-like cries a sharp contrast to their low mean voices which drifted to Julie on the breeze, the pine trees above her whispering and weaving peacefully.  She could see them out there, gleaming in the light, the child’s hair wetly plastered to her face and head, the black hoods bobbing around her occasionally yanking her down below the surface by her leashed neck to disappear then reappear choking and sputtering.  Julie could only imagine the terror her daughter must be feeling surrounded by faceless monsters in deep water, completely at their mercy. She knew the video cameras could not really capture the distant activity out on the lake and she knew the men were doing it just for fun, just for their own perverse amusement. 
	The laughing hooded violent men, led by the dragon-tattoed figure,  now pulled the child out of the water by her leashed neck and dragged her back to the clearing, to the wooden frame, raising her up on to it, arms and legs wide apart, barbed-wire bound tightly to hooks in the frame.
	They took up bullwhips which had bulbed lead tips on the ends of their long braided tongues.
	They removed the dogleash from the child’s neck.
	Kessler passed around the amphetamines.
	Male bodies still wet shone like bronze statues, their cocks stabbed the air like war-ready weapons.
	Sandy hung in mid-air, legs and arms struggling, sobbing, ready for punishment, her smooth body also shining in the hot sunlight.
	It was a slow balletic dance of destruction in the bright noon haze:

	The little bitch is high on the frame. Tight barbed wire cuts into her wrists and ankles.  She is crying and screaming beautifully before the whips even fly.  Her wet body gleams, hair drips down over her face.  The killers have done this before though not with such a small female but it takes only a slight adjustment on their part to guide their fast-flying whips across the straining living body of the suspended child.
	Julies sees it as if in slow motion, choking on the noose she has willingly
accepted.
	Each man takes his turn to strike and the man to his right takes the next turn so that four whips flail out in sequence, going around, turn after turn, on this beautiful afternoon of slaughter. The men are glad to be outdoors. They are exuberant and they take joy in the punishment of their helpless hanging child-victim. Fast hot leather and lead rips at tender young girlmeat, wet girlskin, tearing, ripping into her drawing the shrillest most delectable screams from her as Julie watches, longing for the hard harsh kiss of the whips too, unable to embrace Sandy, her prize, her sweet child, to protect her from the hooded males that now methodically tear her to shreds, her motherly instincts frustrated. She wants to shield Sandy and take the blows herself for this terrible whipping is what Julie now anxiously craves. But mom’s well-deserved punishment just this: to hang by her neck on the choke-rope and witness the sado-sexual abuse of her screaming ten year old. It is more just and fulfilling to the punishing males that she be made to watch, to bear witness to Sandy’s unjust punishment.  Is this not the most perfect way for a mother to suffer, to watch the daughter, who is clearly innocent and undeserving, be punished, and not the mother, whose thighs tingle with desire for the lash - to watch, neck-bound, handcuffed, her sweet guiltless child flying in mid air, being cut apart, snagged and striped by vicious cracking leather?
	There is a dark beauty in the desperate movements of the flogged child.
And such beauty is unspeakable, beyond words, beyond language. It is from a time before language.  This act is an act of heroic barbarism perpetrated
by modern men who have shed away all pretense of civilization.  This small virgin is being sacrificed to a priapean god with a stone heart and her solo flight into the land of agony is astonishing to watch.  The hooded killers are mesmerized by it increasing the tempo of their attack, slashing faster to see her hurt and bleed and twitch. They jerk off between blows to stay hard, to excite themselves further.  They strike with no consideration of the size and age of their victim.  She will be punished worse than any adult female luckless enough to become their target. She will be made to pay the highest price possible.
	And she pays so endearingly, screaming, twisting in mid-air, her little hands reaching out into the empty air, framed, hung in wire.  She is being slowly
ripped to pieces, shattered. She lunges first toward one side then toward the other, yanking against the barbed loops that scratch into her ankles
and hands as the bullwhips snap at her like fierce dogs, coil around her
prompting searing cuts that draw her frenetic screams.  Stretched in the
wooden frame she is a jittery puppet-girl, head swinging back and from side to side, little feet wriggling, little hands splayed, and each forceful thwackk of
the killers’ whips sets off new and unexpectedly lovely motions in her, desperate articulations of her plight.  The bulbed lead tips whunk and smack into her,
hard meaty sounds, that bruise and cut until bits of blood and flesh spatter right off her, roll down her little legs and off her feet. “Go for the nipples!” one of the killers shouts, and they all do, each in turn taking a shot at the small targets,
bullwhips thumping against Sandy’s chest, thump, whump, thump, scratching
away at her.  A cheer as one nipple is sliced apart by a lead bulb. Thump, whump, monotonously, demandingly, one slash tearing her cheek, another her neck, nipping at her armpits until her other nipple is gashed open and her
piercing scream is followed by the approving shouts of her tormentors and by the sobs of her choking mother across the clearing. “Let’s tear that little pussy up!”
another one shouts. “Yeahh! Tear it out of ‘er!”. “Little whore!” And the
slashing fire moves down to her belly, to her little hips, to her dimpled
little ass to slisshh and wrap around her and smackk as her hands reach even higher and she screams for her momma.  They hit her harder there. With more ferocity.  With released viciousness, now letting go of all their pent-up
hostility, aiming their whips for maximum impact.  The lead bulbs swipe
and slash at her upper thighs to find her swollen burned little love-slit and
rip at it, flashcuts that singe and stripe, bruise and slice the little angel’s core,
tearing away her labia, pounding into the plum-meat of her mons, pussywhipping the little whore until she bleeds from her sweet babycunt.  The bullwhips snake
around her legs, tear thighs and calves, pound into her chunky little buttglobes
and cut open her anus then they move up and down her body erratically until
the fevered twisting of the victim begins to subside and Sandy begins to weaken
to lunge less fervently, her head hanging down, her lips drooling in grunting
semi-consciousness and the whipstrokes come less frequently, but harder,
pounding and slamming her around until she’s covered with cuts and blood from
her neck to her heels.
	The whipping ceases and one of the hooded creatures now comes for Julie.  The colorfully tattoed flesh confirms that it is Riemann.
	He releases her from the choking noose and handcuffs and pulls her by an arm out to the clearing.  She can barely walk on the torture sandals, her arched feet swollen and bloody.
	She is put face-first against the X cross, buckled to it by wrists and ankles.
	She can look over her left shoulder to see Sandy hanging in the frame, torn to shreds, bathed in blood, whimpering unitelligibly, her eyes dazed, flies and gnats buzzing about her, lighting on beaten child-meat.
	The hooded killers have not dropped their weapons. 
	They are silent as they now circle the mother, bullwhips rustling as they drag across the unkempt grass.
	It is an amazingly bright day and Julie is now fully conscious, awake.
	Now that the noose is not keeping the blood from her brain she is hyper- conscious of every detail, of the pain of her beaten body and barb-tormented feet,
of her daughter’s suspended agony, of the strained breathing sounds the men make behind the hoods.  Something about that sound sends a shiver all the way through her and hotly arouses her, makes her torn-apart pussy respond wetly.  The men are angry faceless beasts, ravenously hungry and they stroke themselves as they prepare to attack.  She turns from them, looks between the posts of the X cross directly in front of her to see the field stretching toward the forest. Shadows of clouds move across the grass, the trees sway sensuously.  Birds sweep by on their way from the lake behind her to the woods. The colors of the landscape, the sharp hard green of the grass and the dark shade of the trees, the limitless blue above speckled with the moving cloud-puffs make her think of Larissa.  This might have been what Larissa felt when she finally knew, this deep and unshakable love of the earth and its precious inhuman beauty, this longing to give all that is givable, to yield to them, the hungry killers now moving behind her, sizing her up.
	“Your turn, mom,” the dark voice growls.
	Its coming, she thinks tensing.  The men can see the muscles in her arms and legs move and they lick their lips under the hoods. She feels the alien stud Riemann has cleaved through her tongue pressing against the roof of her mouth.  Her legs are spread wide, her arms are above her. This is how it should be. Her trapped hands close into fists.
	She is more than ready.
	“Give it to me,” she says softly.
	There is a heavy rustling sound behind her.
	The sharp smacking pain is infinitely worse than she has imagined. These whips are made to inflict deadly destruction and they do so.  Already
severely wounded, bruised and pierced Julie’s body now shakes under the
fresh assault. She screams at the ground and at the sky for allowing this, for permitting such horror and such dark self-destructive desire.  What kind of God would make such inhuman pain and the need for it possible? But for the men her agonized screams and flinching body provide only depraved pleasure and their hard eyes gleam under the head-hoods.
	They take turns again, as when they worked on Sandy, each one sending his hard leather and lead bulb-tip crashing against the beaten woman.  They slash at her sloping back, at the word FUCKSLUT on her shoulderblades which excites and incites them, at her waist, at her full firm welt-crossed ass globes. They know where the lash will hurt her the most and that’s where they give it to her, on the backs of her thighs, at her kneehollows and calves.
	They whip her with raw intensity from the beginning, unsparingly, testing her limits with every stroke, tearing fresh blood out of her.
	She wonders whether its in her at all to accept this. It is hard for her to believe these whips did not kill Sandy outright but she knows that if the child survived them it is most probable that she will too. She must. For the pleasure of the killers. She is dizzy and nauseous. Lost in the searing pain.
	Then Riemann stands before her, over her, in the space between the two intersecting posts of the X cross, blocking her view of the field and his hand is down in her pussy, the other hand in her hair, at the front of her head, gripping a fistful so that she is forced to look at his black hooded head. Gently he works her, his fingers tweaking and rubbing her clit while the other three men countinue to beat her, slowly, unmercifully, with their whips.
	She knows the hooded creature in front of her is Riemann instantly by his touch - but it is confirmed by his voice as well as by the colorful dragon tatoo spilling over the edges of his strong shoulders.
	“Tell me what you are,” he growls.
	The bullwhips slash at her legs. His hand works her.
	“Tell me.”
	Her hips begin to respond, to sway to his touch as she jumps to each cut.
	“I am meat,” she groans. “Awwhhh! I am nothing.”
	A bulbed lead-tip rips a gash across her spine.
	Her universe comes down to Riemann’s hand, as it did that day long ago in the visiting room at Harris State, steady and firm inside her beaten, bloody cunt.
	Her universe is pain and pleasure, intersecting lines, concurring coordinates.
	“Cut me to a bloody pulp!” she groans loudly.
	The men sneer and grunt, whip her harder spurred on by her outcry.
	Her dead boy in the tub, Tim crumpled on the bed, Sandy hanging bloody in the wooden frame, the afternoon collapsing in on itself.
	Another lead tip cuts a line from her asscheek to her shoulder.
	Riemann squeezes her clit between thumb and forefinger.
	He kisses her mouth and spits into it. He spits on her face.
	He yanks on her hair.
	“Bitchmeat!” he snarls, kisses her again.
	The whips come faster, angrier across her spine and shoulders.
	Lead tip bulbs slice her butt-cheeks open.
	“Kill me!” she screeches. “Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!”
	There is fresh womanblood, hot on her, as she gasps for air and drools.
	“Yeah,” he tells her. “Yeah. That’s how I want you. That’s exactly how I want you. Suffer for me. Suffer.”
	She nods, sobbing, biting her lip.
	This is where she belongs and she knows it.
	He moves away and she is left longing for his hand.
	Then they are turning her around so that her flogged bleeding back is pushed against the X cross.
	“Let’s tear the tits off this worthless cow.”
	It’s Kessler’s voice.
	She faces the killers.
	Above and behind them, in front of her,  Sandy hangs on the frame.
	The time has come to pay.
	One by one they take their turns.
	The bullwhips fly and she sees them come.
	She no longer flinches or looks away.
	Her eyes are fixed on her suspended daughter as the bulbed lead tips tear away. Julie’s sadness is now a distant feeling. Julie and her daughter are meat, street-tramps with studs in their tongues. That is all that counts. It is what the men want. It is what she needs to give them.
	Julie’s nipples, bigger targets than Sandy’s are soon gaping bloody maw.
	This is what my tits are for, what they’ve always been for, she thinks. Tear them off me. Feed on them!
	Fuck me with your whips, she thinks, and they do, bringing the hard leather spiraling up to her punished cunt.  They laugh and curse at her and she takes it, yields to it, opens to it, leaning her head back to stare into the blinding
glare of the sun.
	Then the sun is inside her, its glaring gaseous nuclear heat in her head opening her finally to the buried memory, crashing through all her defenses.
	Daletown. Firewood lake.
	She stands naked before the mirror in the cabin.  She is eleven. The Brady Bunch is on the TV in the other room but she’s not watching it. Her parents have left a note. ‘Be back soon, Sweetie.’ It feels good to be naked but it feels especially though inexplicably good because the man in the chair is watching her. ‘Pretty,’ he tells her.  He wears a lumberjack flannel shirt and jeans and he has unzipped his pants to take his cock out and jerk off while he watches her.  His shotgun leans against the wall.. The gun scares her.  He has walked in on her in the cabin and told her what to do.  His name is Frank and he is a man who works for her father. His eyes have followed her for weeks. ‘You’re a pretty little tramp, aren’t you?’ he asks. ‘Yes, sir,’ she replies. Tramp he has called her.  Its a hateful word but it makes her feel all hot and flushed. ‘C’mere,’ he tells her. She turns from the mirror walks to him slowly across the room. The vapid music plays from the TV as he reaches out for her wrist and pulls her to him. ‘ Feel me.’ He puts her hands on his dick. She has never touched one. Its hot, hard, heavy. And its big. Bigger than anything she could imagine. He has walked in on her and told her to take her clothes off and put her little hands on his big thing and he’s a handsome man, strong, tall, with a dark brown mustache and thick wavy hair. His eyes are hard and green and he breathes deeply as she touches him. He shows her how to move her hands up and down on him. ‘I want to put it inside you,’ he says then leans over to touch her little pussy. ‘Right in here,’ he tells her.  His touch sends a spark through her and she giggles. ‘Its too big,’ she says. ‘That’s your fuckin’ problem,’ he tells her now rising from the chair to stand over her unbuttoning his shirt.  When he is naked he goes to the twin bed. It is her bed. When he sits on it it creaks. He motions her to come to him. ‘Kneel,’ he tells her moving his ass to the edge of the bed.  She obeys sliding down to the floor slowly her legs folding under her, her knees and the tops of her feet against the Indian throw rug. ‘Take it in your mouth,’ he tells her. She looks up at him. His big thing arcs over her, slightly bowed. She feels very hot now and inside she is trembling, unsure about what to do.He pulls her head to his cock and shows her, teaches her what to do, patiently, enjoying her as she responds obediently to his instructions. Then he tells her to lie down next to him, her legs over the edge of the bed. He kneels in front of her on the floor and opens her thighs and dips his face down into her, his fingers spreading her for his tongue. She feels like she is floating, drifting. Frank’s tongue fucks her. Her whole body is flushed and trembling now.  She spreads her legs wider for him.  Her little pussy begins to throb. She moans as she feels his fingers pushing into her, closes her eyes.  Then she hears him as he stands up, hears him move away then cold steel is pushed against her swollen labia. She opens here eyes to see him pressing the shotgun into her pussy, his finger on the trigger. ‘If you ever tell, this is what you’ll get. Understand?’ She is shaking. Somehow the feeling of the deadly weapon aimed at her insides makes her dizzy, makes her ears buzz, makes her even wetter. He presses the barrel into her. ‘Tell me you understand.’ ‘Yessir - yesss - I - I - understand.’ ‘Good. Spread your pussy open, girl. Let me see if I can put m’ gun in it.’ She does as she is told pinching her labia in her hands to open her cunt for the naked man’s wish. He pushes the metal into her slowly, gradually opening her up, sinking the tip of the shotgun in her. The cold hard metal makes her open her legs even further, her toes barely touching the ground. ‘If you ever tell, I’ll do this and then I’ll pull the trigger.’ ‘Mmhh -yes-yes-sir-I-uhh-understand.’ ‘I’ll blow yer pussy out yer head, girl.’  She nods, her eyes fluttering. She imagines the terrible hot flash down there ripping all the way through her.  He begins to work the gun back and forth. Her mouth waters with pleasure, her tongue darts out to lick her swollen lips.  Eleven years old and  she is already whoremeat, already exactly what Riemann has labeled her, FUCKSLUT, even though the whips have cut through the word carved on her back by now and made it completely illegible.  Frank takes his big gun from her leans it back up against the wall. He bends down to lift her legs by the ankles spreading them wide apart and he puts his big dick right up to her pussy.  Her little fingers still hold the lip-flaps open.‘Keep it wide open for me,’ he says and thrusts down into her. His dick is bigger than the gun but more flexible and hot and she responds instinctively to receive him already soaking the sheets with pussy-juice as he pounds into her. He puts his whole weight into her, leaning down to put his big calloused hands around her little throat to choke her while he fucks her. Her coltish legs wrap around his waist as he pumps into her painfully making the bed creak loudly. She moans and gasps breathlessly as he thrusts faster gripping her tighter and tighter. Finally he releases her throat stands up and yanks his thing out of her.  He pumps his cock and hot spurts of cum spray all the way up to her face, all over her chest and belly. Her fingers still hold her pussy open and she lies there silently pleading for more but he just gets dressed and picks up the gun. ‘Remember what I told you,’ he says as he turns and goes to the door. Before leaving the room he looks back at her over his shoulder. ‘Tramp,’ he sneers and is gone. Tramp. The word and the way he says it make her cry and as she whimpers she rubs his semen all over herself and begins to rub her clit. She can still feel his bony fingers around her throat. Tramp. Tramp. Tramp. Eventually her first orgasm explodes in her and then a dirty dark feeling which makes her fold up into a fetal position and lie there and cry and sob until she musters enough courage to rise from the bed and slink to the bathroom to scrub the smell of Frank from her skin.
	“Enough!” one of the hooded males shout.
	She recognizes Kessler’s voice.
	She’s on fire.
	The sun exploding in her head has taken away the dirty dark feeling forever.
	As the whips cease their attack Julie looks down on the torn meat flaps of her tits, the savagely riddled, ridged and scored flesh of her thighs.
	Bloody whoremeat is all she is now. All she has ever been.
	The pain surges through her and she accepts it trembling.
	“Let’s burn these pigs!” Riemann snarls.
	The men drop their bullwhips and move to the smoking cauldron-grill.
	All four hooded killers put on thick construction gloves they take from the plastic crate next to the spike-ramp.
	They each take long charred spear-shafts from the coals.
	All four of them move toward Sandy, two stand in front, two behind their innocent victim.
	The little girl writhes slowly suspended in the frame.  Her head hangs and she does not see them coming.
	Julie watches breathlessly, bound to the cross, arms stretched high, blood still streaming from her whip-torn flesh, down her belly and widespread legs.
	The first killer raises his spear, presses the hot metal into Sandy’s left thigh.
	The little bitch leaps to life on the wires, looks down wide-eyed at the killers and as the metal hisses into her she screams raucously.
	This first piercing is not very deep.
	The others raise their spears to the child’s body, just touching the glowing red metal to her, watching her jump and twist on the barbed wire strands.
	They are all masturbating as they do, slowly and rhythmically.
	Gently they caress the screaming weeping child with the burning spears.
	Smoke wafts up from her burning skin.
	They prod her arms and legs. Her feet.
	Lightly.
	Leaving black-smudged tracks, smudges.
	Then they come for Julie.
	She steels herself for it.
	All four killers face her.
	“Yeahhh,” one of them groans pushing his heated black spear into her bleeding belly.
	She screams and feels hot piercing metal push into her shoulders, into her thighs, into both her whipped breasts.
	“Bitch!” they snarl.
	“Whore!’
	“Burn, you stinking fuck!”
	They stab deeper, thrust into her. She smells their excitement, salty sweaty cum-smell, and the smell of her burning meat. 
	Crying with pain she looks into the eye-slits of the killers in front of her.
	“Come on!” she groans hoarsely. “Uhh! Come on! Put them in me! Stab deep! Ahh-owwhh! Put them through me!”
	The men growl and plunge their metal weapons into her thighs and legs wanting to give her what she wants but holding back.
	She screams with agony as piercing heat gouges into her muscles.
	Carefully the men push their spears into her crotch singing through pussy-hair and piercing tender flesh.
	They put small cauterized burn-wounds all over her belly as she shrieks dementedly.
	“Goddammit, COME ON!” she screams at them.
	“STICK THEM ALL THE WAY IN ME!”
	She wants to feel the hot metal in her guts, wants it all to finish, wants to be ripped apart, but the men stab just deep enough to offer the possibility, going only skin deep in her groin and lower abdomen, pushing deeper into her thighs.
	One of them reaches up, lifts her tit from her chest, snarls: ‘Here you go, pig.’ - slowly pushes his spear completely through her mammary, ripping it back out, leaving an ugly bleeding wound hole in her boob.
	She howls at the indifferently beautiful sky above.
	Leaving her on the edge of consciousness they return to Sandy.
	“Pleeeease don’t hurt my babieeeeee!”  Julie wails at them as she  stretches against her bound ankles and wrists, the balls of her feet pierced deeply by the barbs in the torture sandals as she leans forward trying to escape the cross.
	Her cry comes from a deep place in her which now is almost extinct. 
	The heavy wood cross doesn’t even budge when she fights it.
	The sadists, inspired rather than deterred by the motherly outburst raise the hot metal shafts to pierce and gouge the suspended child.
	The hooded killers circle their little slaughterwhore plunging hot metal spear-tips into her screaming jerking body.
	Julie watching them almost feels each spear thrust as if they stab
into her own skin.  She sobs and rants and pulls against the unyielding ropes.
	She doesn’t know how much more Sandy will take and is amazed that her baby continues to cling to consciousness as the hot spears sink into her legs, deep now, ripping muscle and cartilage, leaving jagged smouldering black, blood dribbling spear wounds in her.
	“Mmmuuuuhhhmmaaahhhhh!” Sandy screams looking down at her mother on the X cross.
	“Pleeeeeeeeease!” Julie wails. “Dear Goddd pleeeeeease!”
	“Shut that whore up!”
	One of them comes for Julie, puts his spear down on the ground, picks up a strand of barbed wire from the crate near the ramp and wraps it viciously around the slaughterwhore’s head over her broken lips, around and around until her mouth is covered with it, her lips torn by the sharp barbs. 
	He picks up his spear again and holds its tip over the cauldron-grill.
	The other men continue to slam their spears into Sandy’s arms and legs, into the soles of her feet.
	The killer that has just wire-gagged Julie returns.
	“Fuck my spear, bitch,” he growls.
	It’s Riemann.
	He bends down to push the hot metal into her ravaged cunt.
	It hisses and sears into her and she twitches and throws her head back to scream gagged unintelligible screams, lips torn on the barbed wire, as Riemann holds the metal in her, prods deeper, mutters ‘Whore - whore - whore - whore -’, drives all the way home to her cervical barrier.
	Kessler, Robeson and Kirkwood begin wounding the suspended child with more serious intent now. Their spears push into Sandy’s rib-cage, into her lower belly, deep into her whipped little butt, burning and savaging the child. Kessler and Robeson in front of Sandy thrust their spears up into her thighs above her knees, into her little pussymound, Kirkwood jabs at her shoulderblades and kidneys, now and then whipping her with the metal spear which thuds loudly. He swings the spear across her back, the child yowling desperately, keening wildly as he slams the spear tip into her arm, going right through it.  Kessler puts his spear through her right foot, Robeson slams her shins with his weapon then stabs deep into her kicking thigh.
	Julie fucks hot metal as she watches her daughter being spear-raped.
	The sun beats down on the killers as they work on the females, cocks erect, skin glossed with sweat.
	Kirkwood, Robeson and Kessler finally drop their spears. Riemann leaves his hilted in Julie and the men all go to the truck for a round of beers and amphetamines.
	The action is on an upward spiral.
	When they come back to the clearing mother and daughter have to be revived.
	The killers spit beer in Julie’s face.
	Sandy is brought down from her suspension.
	Two of the hooded killers rape the whip-slashed spear-gouged child on the ground. The others take Julie on the cross, removing the burning spear from mom’s cunt slowly, dragging it out of her to cunt-fuck her, sinking their eager cockmeat into burned, barb-ripped, beaten, bleeding slaughterwhore meat.
	Sandy is ass fucked mercilessly until her torn anus is raw girlmeat between the spear-pierced burn-gouged buttcheeks.
	As one killer continues to pound into the little girl, she on her belly, the other one stretches her spear-gouged arms and legs apart to rope her wrists and ankles to the wooden stakes in the ground. 
	Both killers then hold sewing needles over the cauldron grill with the
metal tongs.  While one hooded male holds the child’s wounded limbs, first her hands, one finger at a time, the other pushes the heated needles under her fingernails which are still painted, though the paint is chipped now and splotchy.  The killers trade places and pins are pushed into each tiny toe, pushed deep into the screaming victim’s tender flesh.
	While the child is tortured the mother is dragged to the spike-ramp by the other two men.
	They unwrap the barbed wire from around her mouth, pull off her high-heel torture sandals and put her on hands and knees to buckle two cinder blocks to her back with broad studded black leather straps around her tits and waist. 
	Riemann goes around the ramp and climbs up the steps on to the wooden platform.  He stands one hand on his hip the other cock-stroking slowly. The dragon tattoo shimmers in the glaring sunlight.
	The other killer leads Julie to the edge of the ramp.
	“Crawl up there and suck your Master’s dick, bitch.”
	It’s Robeson’s voice.
	“Yes, sir,” she whispers hoarsely.
	The weight of the stones is nearly crushing her down to the ground. Flat and heavy, rough stone on her shoulderblades and spine, pushing down into the welted, burn-speared, wounded skin, she nevertheless struggles to carry them as she has  been ordered. This is a fitting punishment for a female beast of burden, to carry the sins of the world upon her back as her hands sink into the metal spikes on the ramp, piercing into her, her daughter wailing on the ground behind her as the pins are pushed deep, above her, the hooded Master awaiting his pleasure.  	
	The spikes gouge into her knees and she sobs brokenly and is urged on.
	“Let’s go, pig. Get up there. We haven’t got all fucking day.”
	Her arms and legs strain with the load and her head hangs, bloody lips drooling. The tops of her feet scrape the spikes, sharp steel sinking painfully right to her knee-caps and through the palms of her hands. The soles of her feet bear the tiny barb wounds the sandals have left in them.
	It takes her nearly fifteen minutes to climb the full length of the ramp and the Robeson continues his verbal humiliation and invective as he follows walking beside her on the grass next to the ramp.
	“You’re shit. You’re not even human. Look at you. You look disgusting - you stink.  Pig.  We should just put you out of your misery.  But I know you like to suffer for us.  I know you do. so we’re giving you a good opportunity to do it. Out of the goodness of our hearts. Goddamn scumbag. That’s right. Keep climbing. You’re gonna go up there and do what I know you love to do, you cocksucking piece of shit. Come on. That’s Phillip Riemann waitin’ on you up there, the love of your wasted fucking life, you trashy cunt. I know you want to please him and show him how much you need him and love him. ‘Course all he wants from you is to see you completely broken and used up like the trashwhore you are. Tell him you love him now. Come on. Let me hear it, pig. Let us all hear it. Just like before. Tell him you love him and then tell all of us how much you love us. Because I know you do. We’re destroying you piece by piece and killing your little girl. Riemann’s already raped and killed your whole fuckin’ family but I know you love him and you love all of us dearly, us and all the men watching, don’t you you stinking scumbag piece of shit whore? SAY IT!”
	Hot bloody piss spills from Julie’s cunt.
	“Gha - yess - yess -” she grunts, hardly able to catch her breath to speak.
	“I - I - l-love you - all of you - I want to die for you -”
	Down below, one of Sandy’s tormentors grips the little child’s neck and chokes her until her tongue lolls out;  he seizes and wire-ties it to a nail in the ground.  More needles are stabbed through the hapless victim’s tongue, in her ears and cheeks.  As she lies there spreadeagled on her belly to the stakes in the ground, small rhythmically hypnotic whimpers coming from her throat her two tormentors, Kirkwood and Kessler take turns to kneel behind her, between her burned and beaten legs to lift her up by the hips and rape her repeatedly in both her small ravaged holes. 
	Julie reaches the top of the ramp and Riemann leans down to take her by her hair and lift her suffering face to his demanding cock.  The cinder blocks sag slightly pulling on her shoulders and he has to grip her hair hard to hold her upright. He says nothing as she opens wide for him, the hooded face just staring down contemptuously for a brief moment before his hips languidly push forward and his organ fills her mouth.  He moans with pleasure as her studded tongue moves against the underside of his prick, her lips wide and sucking, her eyes, one bruised half shut and the other wide, showing him the complete surrender of her soul, her wounded hands limp on her lap.
	He lets her suck him for a few minutes taking in the torture of the child down below, smiling under the hood.
	Kessler and Kirkwood take their fill of Sandy slam-raping her, their strong bodies fueled by dose after dose of amphetamines, their swollen shafts dark red, almost purple. They grunt and drool with the effort, one of them fucking the child the other one looking on, Robeson picking up the video-cam to shoot alternate close-ups of Sandy’s kill-rape and Julie on Riemann’s cock.
	Riemann puts his hands on Julie’s shoulders and as Robeson aims the camera at them he gives her a forceful push.  Her arms swing out from her body,
twitch helplessly as she looses her balance and totters backward, slams on to the ramp and rolls to the ground with a sharp cry, the cinder blocks under her.
	“Put another block on ‘er,” Riemann tells Robeson.
	Robeson puts the camera down, moves to Julie and kicks the sobbing slaughterwhore over on her belly.
	As he lifts another cinder block on to her and straps it to the first block on her shoulders she lies on her belly in the grass helplessly trying to recover her breath after the fall from the platform, helplessly watching the torture of her daughter.
	Kirkwood and Kessler both take hot metal tongs.  The medieval torture implements are about a foot and a half long with sharply pointed jaw-tips.  They stand over Sandy and pinch her with them, tong-metal burn-piercing girlskin as they clamp the toools shut and grip them hard.  Julie’s daughter gives out weak, muffled cries with each bite of the tongs which move down her back over her spear-gouged butt and legs leaving ugly burn-smeared piercings. Julie can see her daughter’s fingers, pin-stabbed, bleeding on the blades of grass as the tormented limbs stretch against their bonds, spear-gouged arm-wound cauterized by heat.Then the men each take a piece of coal from the smouldering cauldron in the tongs and as Julie watches, no longer responsive to her own child’s agony, emotionally drained, crushed by the weight of the three cinder blocks, she sees the killers move to Sandy to thrust the red-hot coals, one up her cunt the other up her asshole.  The little girl answers the terrible torture with  odd whining screams trying to rear her head back, held down by her wired, pin-pierced tongue.  Her wrists and ankles fight weakly against the wires that hold her to the stakes in the ground. Inadvertently her toes and fingers push into the ground and jam the needles deeper, tortured, coal-fucked innocent shrieking frenetically. 
	Julie is made to climb the ramp again, now weighed down with three heavy blocks, hands and knees and feet torn and bloody from the spikes.
	Robeson picks up the hand-held cam again and tapes a close-up of it.
	This too will become a favorite moment for the cruel eyes watching the video, broken, defeated, humiliated bitch gashing herself on the torture ramp, her spent muscles working, blood and sweat-sheened cunt, doing her utmost, working overtime to satisfy her demanding inhuman masters, to prove her love of the men who kill her and her child for sexual pleasure and money. As she moves up the ramp, Kessler and Kirkwood leave off the torment of Sandy to punish the climbing weighed-down mother with the hot metal tongs, reaching out with the wicked tools to pinch-burn the beaten, spear-gouged meat of her thighs and calves, her sides and her arms and her shoulders.
	Screaming, sobbing with pain, her limbs almost giving out Julie finally reaches the top of the structure where Riemann waits patiently, hooded ruler
of her life.  Again he yanks her up by her hair, again the massive weight of the stones pulls down on her and her lips quiver as she opens them wide for 
her master.
	The fingers of his free hand trace her lips.  The smell of his cock makes her dizzy.
	“I’m gonna spit in your mouth,” he tells her. “Swallow it.”
	She nods, her doting eyes never leaving the slitted mask above her.
	Her life and her daughter’s life now clearly belong to Him - the Dragonman - returned from her past to claim what has always been rightfully His.  He has taken everything from her and has given her nothing but agony, humiliation and suffering in return.  She opens her mouth wide to receive
	His spit.
	He is framed faceless and godlike in green foliage and sunny blue sky as he leans forward, hocking up phlegm in his throat, his lips pressing against the slit of the hood, a silvery trail of yellowish slime oozing from them.  His spittle, salty and thick, drops into her mouth and she gags as she swallows it.  He lifts his cock to her lips and thrusts it inward gripping her head hard, now fucking her mouth with quick surging motions, grunting, enjoying her.  She sucks him eagerly, more eagerly than she has ever done anything, desperately, using her studded tongue on him, thrilled by her Lord’s moaning pleasure. The others circle the platform and watch, jerking off, Robeson shooting the obscene surrender of the tortured female, zooming in to capture it up close.
	“Hand me some rope,” Riemann calls out.
	One of the men reaches into the crate and hands him a coiled strand.
	While Julie continues to suck him he pulls her hair up in a tail, ties it off and slings the rope up to the branch of the oak tree above the platform.  He tugs on the cord until her hair is pulled upward, visibly stretched off her forehead, and he knots the rope on the branch leaving the kneeling woman now hair-bound
to the tree above, tottering slightly out of balance.
	“Deep throat me,” he growls.
	She takes his long fat cock down her gullet, eyes shut tightly, gagging,
white spit spilling from her lips. He no longer has to hold her so he lets her
work him, hands on his hips, dragon tattoo flexing on his wide back, legs apart, he occasionally thrusting forward to fill her throat-hole, the platform creaking beneath them. Then he pulls back to rub his cock head on her cheeks and lips and forehead as she looks up at him, beaten, emptied of all self-worth, slavewhore prepared to follow all of her Lord’s requests and commands.
	“Are you ready to please all your masters?”
	There is no hesitation.
	“Yes, sir - yes - all of you - all -”
	“Good. That’s what I like to hear.”
	Riemann pulls back and walks down the platform steps.  As he does one of the others climbs up to Julie.  Over the next forty five minutes all four killers take their time, each man going up on the platform to fuck the slaughterwhore’s mouth and throat with passionate vehemence, sometimes slapping or punching her, sometimes pinching her nostrils shut and choking her with their pricks.  She takes the punishment, her bloody gouged knees in fiery pain, the cinder-blocks
weighing her down, her hair being almost pulled out of her head - takes it in complete abandon and selflessness, forgetting that a few feet away her own
daughter, her own flesh and blood lies on the ground, broken, gouged,
burned out, needle-pierced, forgetting that in the shallow mudbank by the lake her husband and son lie dead, axed to pieces. 
	Julie’s mind is empty of everything now except the need to please the bitch-killers.  She has reached the core of her feminine submission.
	After fucking his cinder-block hindered victim’s moist sensual mouth Kessler loosens the rope that holds her by her hair to the branch above and orders her to crawl down the spike ramp.  Painfully, she obeys, swiveling around on her knees slowly, the cinder blocks on her back almost tipping her forward off-balance.  She leans down and moves on hands and knees down the punishment ramp the spikes ripping new wounds in her as her weighed-down limbs push down into them. At the base of the ramp Robeson and Kirkwood wait for her.  One of them takes the rope still knotted in her hair and pulls her head up as she kneels on the grass.  Both bitch-killers push their cocks into her face.  She gives both of them pleasure, filling her mouth with their pricks, licking and squeezing  their balls in her bloody spike-gouged hands, breathlessly going back and forth from one to the other, and then she’s ordered to climb back up the platform. Sobbing weakly she climbs the ramp again.  Kessler and Riemann wait for her atop the platform. The men drink more beers and pop more pills as Julie drags herself up the spiked incline.  Her blood runs down the plywood plank between the spikes.
	Kessler and Riemann take turns stuffing Julie’s mouth, glaring hatefully down on her, calling her names.  She receives them piously jerking them off in her gashed hands impaling her throat on their erect cockshafts as she sucks until she’s told to go down the ramp again. Up and down the ramp she’s made to crawl from the two bitch-killers on the ground to the two on the platform crudely face-fucked, choked, slapped, spit on, gut-punched until she’s in a confused daze.
	Then she’s at the top of the platform, her head again pulled to the branch overhead by the stretch of rope still knotted in her hair.  Her hands at her sides dripping blood, legs and knees numb and bloody, flesh, muscle, nerves and tendons gouged out by the spikes.
	The sky above is now crowded with gray storm clouds which have gradually moved in.  Cool wind blows across the clearing.
	Kessler towers over her.  He’s pulled the rope that leads from her tangled hair to the branch above tightly. He rubs his prick on her face, on her eyelids.
	She is not sure it is him until he speaks.
	“A couple of days ago I pissed on you and you thought it was gross,” he tells her. “Remember?”
	...crouching in the cold grave on the first night of her capture - the memory seems fuzzy and distant, as of something in another life.
	“Yes, sir.”
	Thunder roars in the distance.
	“I want to piss on you now. How do you feel about it?”
	“Do it - piss all over me - piss in my mouth - make me drink it -”
	“You know we’re going to kill Sandy, you heard us talk about it.”
	“Yes...”
	...He pressed the tip of his cock against her cheek and moved it down to circle her lips with it.
	A flash of lightning scratched across the storm clouds and boomed.
	“Yes what?” he said softly.
	“Mmhh - yes - yes sir -”
	“Well how do you feel about it?  You’re daughter is going to be butchered like a pig.”
	Tears welled up in her eyes but she looked into his hood-slits never wavering.
	“Kill her if that is what pleases you - she deserves it just like me -”
	“No, whore,” he growled. “You deserve worse.”
	Again lightning and thunder exploded in the sky and the wind kicked up and moved through the trees.
	Kessler stepped back and aimed his cock into Julie’s mouth.
	“Drink,” he told her.
	And as the hot bright yellow gush sprang hissing from his dick she did, urine gurgling in her mouth and trickling down her chin, down her throat and whip-scored, fork-pierced, spear-burned belly, pooling in her crotch and trickling between her slashed spear-gouged thighs.  When he finished pissing on her he pushed his cock into her throat, hilting in her, making her suck every last drop from it, taking his pleasure from her studded tongue and hungry lips.  His strong hands moved down to paw her torn breasts, to prod the spear hole in her boob with eager fingers.  She moaned eagerly and jerked him off between both gouged up-stretched palms as she slurped and bobbed on his prick.
	Before leaving Julie, hung by her hair on her knees, Kessler asked for a short strand of barbed wire which he wrapped choke-tight around his slaughterwhore’s neck.  Above the lake, the sky was dark now and booming with occasional electrical flashes.
	  Riemann climbed up the platform steps with a tube-gag, a black ball with a buckle strap on it attached to a short piece of hose and Robeson followed with two plastic gallon containers, one full of some grayish gruel, the other with water. Kirkwood followed the other two men with two more gallon-jugs of water dangling from his hand. On the ground below Kessler picked up the hand-held cam to shoot the action on the platform. 
	Riemann ordered Julie to open her mouth wide and then forced the gag into it, buckling the strap tight around her neck as he pushed the tube down the choking sputtering slaughterslut’s throat.  When the gag was in place he inserted a large metal funnel into the feed-hole in the gag and yanked her roped hair forcing her to tilt her head back, holding her while Robeson and Kirkwood poured the contents of their plastic jugs into the kneeling captive.  The grayish gruel containing a highly potent laxative were poured into Julie. Then as she continued to gasp and gag horribly three gallons of water followed the gruel.
	Down on the ground spread on her belly and tied to the stakes Sandy writhed weakly as her mother’s punishment continued.
	Riemann looked down on both females as the men finished.
	He read the pain in Julie’s eyes and smiled under the black hood.
	“Let’s plug the whore up,” Riemann said. “Then we’ll give ‘er more.”
	From the cauldron grill with their tongs Kirkwood and Robeson carefully lifted two smouldering shafts of metal.
	Kessler put down the camera and reached into the crate. He took two
syringes and attached hypodermic needles. He handed one up to Riemann.
	“Shoot her up now, Phil. We don’t want her to pass out. We want her wide awake. I’ll do the little bitch.”
	Riemann plunged the needle deep into Julie’s arm and Kessler bent down to stab his into Sandy’s neck. The killers squeezed the plungers and the potent mix
of amphetamines and glucose flowed into the females. Almost immediately Sandy began wailing on the ground her head tugging against her wired, pin-pierced tongue.  Julie began breathing fast and sweating, eyes bulging wildly, nostrils
flared like a spooked mare.  It seemed like all the wounds in her had suddenly flared and she knew Sandy must be feeling the same thing.  
	Kirkwood and Robeson now approached and climbed the platform as Riemann stepped aside. Julie saw the thick smouldering metal shafts on the end of the tongs and began to squeal and quiver frenziedly, unable to escape the heavy weight of the cinder blocks and the grip of the rope that hung from the tree and kept her on her knees by her knotted-up hair.  
	“Spread your legs,” Riemann commanded.
	“Gh! Ggg! Nggg!” she uttered.
	“I said spread your fucking legs now.”
	Slowly, as the men waited for her, still making frightened choking sounds in her throat she moved her gouged knees apart on the rough wood of the platform.
	She knew what was coming.
	The dark sky belched thunder.
	Kirkwood moved in first.
	He bent down beside her, pried her beaten ass-cheeks apart and raised the shaft up to her raped anus.
	Hot metal first singed the inside of her thighs and then pressed sizzling into the tender sensitive skin around her rectal opening.
	Under his mask Kirkwood smiled and gritted his teeth as he watched
the bound female shudder, her rope-bound head rocking back and forth, gagged face beautiful in its display of unbearable pain.  He knew he was taking her to an intensity of masochistic suffering she’d never been to before and had she not been shot up with potent uppers she probably would have passed out.  As the others urged him on he pushed the hot steel upward into Julie’s anal passage, filling and burning it, stuffing the screaming whore with hot metal.
	Then it was Robeson’s turn.
	As Kirkwood gave the metal dildo a final shove into Julie’s asshole and pulled back to step off the platform Robeson went down on one knee in front
of the kneeling victim and brought the tongs with the hot shaft on the end
up to her cuntslit.  He raised it slowly watching her jerk helplessly against
the cinder blocks strapped to her, her gouged knees bleeding on the platform.
	The slut was a fucking mess.  Her eyes stared into the slits of her torturer’s
hood, into his hungry gaze, as he lifted the smouldering steel to her woman flesh.
	“This is what you deserve,” he told her. “Isn’t it?”
	She nodded slowly, gravely, gagged torture-slave accepting her fate then jerked and whined and tugged her head violently against the rope that held it by her hair as Robeson grunted lifting the heated metal dildo up into her snatch.
	Though Julie had already been fucked by the hot steel spear this thick snub-nosed object filled her completely and burned every bit of her vaginal passage on its way in.  It was a devastating fire-fuck of steel and her lips yawned wide under the tube-gag in a raucous and passionate if muffled scream of pure female agony.
	Elated with the physical and psychological impact of the grisly torture on his suffering victim Robeson gave out a victorious shout, like counterpoint to her own high-pitched shriek, as he crammed the instrument of destruction slowly and deliberately up Julie’s cunt.  Dark blood and piss bubbled up out of her, her half-swollen belly rocking, her feet kicking against the wooden platform as Robeson pushed the hot steel all the way in, hilting it firmly inside her where it would not be easily dislodged.
	By the time Robeson stepped off the platform Julie was at the limits of endurance.  The unbearable pitch of sensation provoked by the two pieces of
heated steel buried in her overwhelmed her.  The hot dildos were actually cooking her alive from the inside and her body was in the midst of a tortuous conflict doing everything it could to expel the fluid which balloned her belly out impeded by the metal shafts that were stopping her up.
	Riemann was up on the platform again, a coil of barbed wire in his gloved hands.
	The clouds overhead grew darker - wind blew the grass in waves.
	The killer knelt before his suffering barely conscious slaughterwhore and looped the wire around her waist and down through the crack between her ravaged ass-cheeks then back up through her metal-split crotch creating a thong which he knotted tightly in front to keep her from expelling the metal dildos.
	He then poured two more gallons of water into the plastic funnel attached to the tube gag in Julie’s mouth filling the sputtering, shaking victim until her belly swelled even more, until the bitch looked eight months pregnant.  He then removed the funnel and placed a black stopper on the gag hole. Julie choked, coughed up water through her nose, tried to fight the gag reflex caused by the tube in her throat. The stud in her tongue scraped the roof of her mouth.  Already the fullness in her stomach had begun to tingle and shift as the laxative began to work.
	Working quickly Riemann bound Julie’s tits in separate tight rope loops, strangling the swollen, beaten, misshapen meat orbs and draping the rope over
the branch overhead alongside the one that was knotted in her tangled mane to lift her up off her knees by her tits.
	Riemann stepped down and the killers moved the platform to one side, sliding it out from under the slaughterwhore to leave her hanging and groaning suspended by her tits and hair.  Kessler then strapped cinder blocks to each of her bloody feet adding another forty pounds of concrete to her already considerable load.  The legs of the metal-stuffed, swollen-bellied, tit-hung fuck-bitch were now pulled straight down, feet pointing at the ground below.
	As lightning crashed over the clearing Kessler took the video-cam to get some slow up-down panning shots of the hanging victim capturing her anguish for the blood-thirsty males that would watch the tape.
	Then the four sadistic killers turned their attention upon the child.
	They untied Sandy’s limbs, freed her needle-pierced studded tongue and carried her back up to the wooden frame to hang the bleeding little slut by her wrists, off the ground, her head level with theirs, her belly level with their big cocks.  
	From her suspension on the oak branch Julie watched two of the killers take butcher knives from the plastic crate and raise them up to slice across Sandy’s thighs, leaving several scarlet cuts on the weeping child before plunging the sharp weapons into her little belly from either side gashing out two holes in her lower abdomen as she hung screaming raucously. The knives were yanked out and two at a time the men raised their hard aching pricks into the child’s wounds, penetrating her body to fuck her guts through the stab-holes.
	Wildly Sandy shrieked and called for her momma as the killers gut-fucked the ten year old.
	Fresh blood, small bits of grayish gutmeat dripped down Sandy’s kicking legs and off her heels into the grass.
	Her screams were answered by the thundering, darkening sky.
	“Nggg! Nhaahgg!” Julie whimpered as she watched the brutal destruction of her daughter.
	For each killer the sensation of warm baby-girl intestines on their tense shafts produced ecstatic, mind-bending sexual pleasure. Each inthrust caused more fluid, blood, faeces and gutskin to pulse from the ripped holes in Sandy’s abdomen, the hard male cockshafts squeezing inward almost to the balls then out again, coated with cherry-red slime and brown-streaked goo. When two killers pushed in simultaneously the child would hang her head and make low gasping grunting noises as she was stabbed full of prodding pumping manmeat. As he waited between turns to shove his own demanding meat into the stabbed hanging child Kessler made sure that the cameras were aimed properly to focus on Sandy’s bleeding cock-stuffed belly.  Her pin-pricked fingers and toes reached outward stiffly as she screamed with each penetration, her skin pushed outward by the massively aroused organs of her tormentors. They would rub themselves on the whipped, spear burned, knife-cut skin of the ten-year old’s thighs and hairless puss to thrust deep into her intestines, more innards spilling out of the little bitch as each killer withdrew. Her hot blood gushed down their balls and down their legs as they prodded her with their massive organs.  Each time they penetrated, going through the pierced outer skin and into the inner folds of her digestive tract their savage grunts of pleasure came faster and harder until they seemed nothing less than drooling demons.
	“Let’s finish her,” Kessler grunted. “Let’s finish the little fuck.”

	...Julie watches sickened with pain and horror, vanquished, her body
being pulled downward, sagging under the weight of the cinder blocks, her purple tits being nearly torn from her chest by the ropes, her womb burning from the disastrous intrusion of the hot metal shafts.
	A drop of rain pelts her hot tortured face. Then, another.
	From the shed, one of the killers brings the long steel shaft.  Its diameter is two inches and it is seven feet long.
	Julie remembers watching a young girl die on it in the videos back at the Vanner warehouse.
	She knows Sandy will die on it now. Die horribly.
	The killers release Julie’s ten year old daughter from the barbed wire strands that hold her on the black wooden frame.
	Two of the killers hold her between them, hold her spear-wounded legs wide open.
	There is very little resistance left in Sandy.
	Riemann is given the privilige.
	He puts the long impaling spear to the child’s blood-raped asshole.
	Rain has begun to drizzle down on the clearing and hiss across the lake and the trees. It patters on the tortured flesh of the little girl suspended between
the masterful killers.
	Kessler takes the video cameras back to the shed except for the hand held cam which he uses to catch the action. He  returns to the clearing in the drizzling downpour just as Robeson and Kessler hold Sandy between them and Riemann begins to push the thick metal spear into her.  The slaughter-child writhes weakly as the shaft grinds into her splitting her open. The pressure causes gray-brown intestines and blood to continue pushing out of the knife-holes in her abdomen. Her little head hangs back upside down between the two hooded men that hold her, widemouthed, studded tongue lolling, and she sees her mother hanging, trailing cinder-blocks from her legs, on the oak.  Rain spatters Sandy’s face and eyes and Julie looks down at her.  The child tries to call out but has no energy to do so as blood pours out of her.  Her lips form an ‘m’ sound but the word ‘momma’ never comes, instead more blood pours from her swollen lips.  Riemann encounters resistance as the tip of the spear lodges against the outer membrane-wall of Sandy’s stomach.  He leans forward and the men push back against him and the spear tears through, the little slut spasming and kicking with new pain, going pale as shit and blood squeeze out around the edges of the spear and from the knife holes in her belly.  Riemann continues to push the spear through the child, up her esophagus as she chokes loudly, spits out bile and mucous, shrieks dementedly and whines.  Kessler takes closeups of Sandy as a gush of bloody brown faeces spills from her lips followed by the spear tip which begins to push out through her trembling lips, the shape of the metal intrusion manifested clearly under the pale skin of her stretched throat.
	“That’s it. Come on,” Kessler grunts from behind the camera. “Just a bit more.”
	Riemann reaches out to steady the child by one hip as he now pushes
on the fat spear.
	With a low ripping sound and as Sandy grunts and vomits bile, shit and darker blood the full tip of the impaling weapon exits the child’s mouth between her swollen lips trailing innards and bloody curdles of intestinal waste.
	“YEahh!” Robeson shouts.
	“Fuckin’ nice!” Kirkwood adds.
	“Alright,” Kessler tells them still shooting, capturing the death throes of the ten year old girl. “Lets get ‘er up on the concrete slab.”
	The men take the speared virgin to a square block at the end of the dirt road.  They place the butt end of the long lance on a depression in the block obviously made for just this purpose: to support an impaled victim in an upright position.  As Sandy is released,  her arms reach out pleadingly then fall back to her sides. Her legs kick weakly. The needles jammed under her finger and toe nails still spill tiny blooddrops like diminutive sapphires.
	Julie watches the killing of her precious daughter as the rain now begins to drench her tautly up-bound hair and sting her multiple wounds welts and lacerations.  Her insides are twisting and cramping horribly.  The laxative gruel has started to work on her water-filled belly but the steel dildos will not allow any release. There will be no relief, no escape from the bloating in her churning bowels and no redemption from the eclipse of her soul on this stormy day.  Sandy, her helpless daughter, is about to die in the worst way imaginable and she, the mother-slut, the mother-pig, is responsible.  And what is worse, in some twisted way she has already aquiesced, surrendered to the gross injustice the killer males are perpetrating.  She has taken it all into herself bearing the full weight of sin and betrayal, of masculine greed and violence.
	She watches as the men stab grapple hooks through Sandy’s wrists and
ankles right through bone and muscle connecting the eyelets on the hooks to two long strands of metal chain, one strand on one side to one wrist and ankle, the other on the opposite side.
	The child is too weak now to even scream.
	Sandy’s limbs dangle as her feet twitch. She whines and wheezes. Blood
spurts from her nostrils.  Lovely, near death now, the little girl is a sorrowful
image, a shameful vision, an atrocity from which most sane, civilized adults would turn away, nauseated.  What this ten year old has been forced to endure
is obscene, primeval.  As the focus point of raging sadistic bitch-killers she has
drawn upon herself the full wrath of the mysoginistic male.  Gut-fucked and
spear-raped, her pretty little head tilted backward, spear-tip emerging grossly
from her half-open mouth, she is every sadistic whore-butcher’s dream, a
sweet-ass piece of heaven about to give it all up for her bloodthirsty masters.
	Julie sees two hooded killers move toward the vehicles, the Caravan and the pickup and hears the engines roar to life across the clearing.
	The vehicles are positioned on either side of the impaled child.
	The chains are hooked up to the rear bumpers.
	As the vehicles slowly move apart  the chains come up off the ground and Sandy’s limbs rise up almost perpendicular to the upright impaling spear on either side.
	The rain washes blood down off the child’s face and tilted-back head down 
her chest. She looks ready for the cruel embrace of death, arms and legs wide
apart welcoming the finality that has been imposed on her.  The engines of the
two vehicles on either side of the child growl in idle exhaust pipes puffing in the
misty rain.	
	Riemann stands out in the pouring drizzle in front of his impaled victim guiding Kirkwood and Robeson who are in the driver’s positions inside the vehicles.
	“Slow,” he tells them. “Real slow. I want to be able to see it happen. I want it on tape.”
	His hands are raised like a conductor’s.
	Behind him, Kessler continues to shoot the scene with the video cam.
	Riemann gives the signal and the truck and the van begin to move apart gradually, brake lights glowing as the rain rolls down them.
	Little Sandy feels the tugging chains.  Her shoulders and hips strain
and she gives out a faint gasping airy cry as her right arm and right leg rise together, left arm and left leg together.  The needles in her toes and fingers
wiggle in the rain and Riemann smiles still signalling the vehicles to move apart.
	The chains rattle and lift higher.
	Julie gasps and bites her lip.
	Riemann’s smile broadens, his cock cleaves the air in front of him.
	The beauty of this little-girl-kill will stay with him forever.
	The child’s arms give first with a sharp crack and her impaled head
tries to swivel and look but she’s held immobile as her hips creak and then
snap and she sobs as the skin starts to rip and Riemann continues to signal and the vehicles continue to move, powerful engines revving, tires gripping the muddy ground.  Inside the vehicles the hooded killers look in their rear view mirrors and jerk off as they slowly tear the child apart.  The right arm and left leg tear out in unison and are followed closely by the left arm and right leg.  Sandy’s collar bones and her ribs are pried apart with the tension and her heart is crushed in her chest.  Blood explodes from her spear-pierced mouth and flows into her eyes.  She is now a living stump of human child-meat on the spear, her arms and legs torn from her and dragging away in the dirt her guts pouring out of the knife wounds in her lower belly.
	Robeson and Kirkwood stop the vehicles and get out.
	The four killers circle the murdered mutilated child in the rain, Kessler with the video-cam on his shoulder.
	“Awesome,” Kessler whispers.
	They are all slowly jerking off.
	The ground is becoming soft and muddy with rain.
	From her suspension Julie has not stopped watching. The slaughterslut weeps. Her extreme physical suffering is now more than matched by the killing grief of seeing her last child bestially snuffed.
	Hauntingly, at the edges of her quickly vanishing sanity, she hears the voices of the murdered women again floating on the hissing rain and
moving like wind across the clearing as the sun begins to cut through the
quickly moving clouds.  
	Its a sunshower and the killers are amazed because the arm-less and leg-less child still lives, her blood spurting in sluggish bursts from the gashes where her 
arms and legs used to be, her eyes fluttering.
	“Little fuck,” Riemann grunts.  He looks around.  The mask is stifling hot on his face and he is flushed with fierce unstoppable lust.  He picks up a heavy
brick-sized rock from the ground and approaches the butchered child.
	The others all watch mesmerized as Riemann takes Sandy’s impaled
head in his left hand by the hair to stretch it back, his hard fingers tangled in her soft wet hair as he tugs her away from the spear, her little brown eyes looking up at him dazed, blood-filled, her nostrils flaring slightly, a nearly inaudible wet choking sound in her throat and blood spurting from her lips as the hooded killer raises his right hand high, the hard irregular shape of the stone cupped in his palm.
	Sandy sees the stone coming, wide-eyed. It is silouhetted against the suddenly bright sun in the clearing sky.
	Kessler has not stopped shooting with the video cam. He’s going in for
the final zoom.
	Riemann slams the stone down into Sandy’s forehead full force caving it in.
	The little girl’s body spasms, her eyes roll back lifelessly.
	Riemann slams her again crushing her skull.
	He shouts angrily and poundss the blood-dripping stone down into her face, at the bridge of her nose smashing the child’s pretty innocent features into disfigured meat as her mother whines and kicks her cinder-block-laden legs in mid-air. 
	“The killing pain,” Larissa’s ghost whispers into Julie’s ear. 
	“The men impose it on us, Jul. The chains are heavy. The stones. The spears...feel it...feel it inside you Julie.  Isn’t it good?  Hard and good, Julie.
Hard. So hard. So much of it. So deep.”
	In the clearing the men pry what’s left of Sandy off the impaling lance and toss her limbs, now unhooked, and her cadaver in a bloody pile on the muddy road.
	Kessler has stopped taping.
	The men have ripped off their hoods and their faces are wild and flushed,
the wind in their hair and the sun lighting up the field again as they circle the
mangled carcass.  Almost in unison they shout and their hips jerk and their cocks
spurt manseed on the dead child’s remains. Robeson falls to his knees and
pushes his spurting cock into Sandy’s little mouth, Kessler into her gashed face.
Riemann reaches down to pick up one leg and take a bite of it. The little foot, pins still stuck under the toenails, dangles lifelessly. Kirkwood goes down on
one knee to push his hard spurting meat and his balls against Sandy’s gouged out
pussy and knife-slashed thighs.
	“Aren’t the killers beautiful?” Larissa asks Julie.
	“Aren’t they powerful and handsome?” Mara Lane whispers seductively. “Like a pride of wild lions.”	
	Julie can’t see them but she feels the ghostly silky hands moving over her beaten suspended body, knowingly caressing her, teasing her.
	Just before she blacks out she feels a pulling on her legs.
	Kessler is cutting the cinder blocks off her.
	Riemann climbs on the wooden platform, reaches out and cuts the ropes that hold her tits in suspension first one, leaving her painfully hanging by a single stretching fleshglobe, the left one, the one he has driven his spear all the way through, then he cuts the other rope and finally he severs the one that holds her up by her hair.
	She collapses to the ground in a heap under the crushing weight of the
cinder blocks still strapped around her back.  Her belly feels as though it will explode but the metal dildos stuffed inside her remain in place held there by the barbed wire thong.  Shooting pains run up and down her spine.
	Kessler unstraps the blocks from her as she lies on her side.
	Then she’s made to crawl back toward the dirt road.
	The men tell her to take the pieces of her daughter and carry them
to the muddy grave by the lakeshore.  She can barely stand, let alone walk.
Her limbs are pierced, bruised and beaten and as Riemann lifts Sandy’s torso into her arms she feels as though she will fall.  Julie’s belly is hugely swollen and blood trickles from the spear hole in her purple-bruised tit.
	“We’ll help you, Julie,” the ghost women say, their arms suddenly
all around her invisibly supporting her, helping her stay on her feet. “We’ll help  you bury her. You have to take her to be with her daddy and brother.  Then you will be free of her...of them...they never belonged to you. You were wrong ever to have a family. They died because of you, for the pleasure of the killers and now you will belong to the killers, just like you’ve always wanted.”
	Julie begins to totter and stumble back across the clearing toward the lake on bloody feet, her dead daughter’s dismembered corpse in her arms, her knees almost giving out, the men watching her, walking alongside her and jerking off, silent now, taking their enjoyment from the inhuman physical and emotional destruction they’ve wreaked.
	She has to make two trips, the second one for Sandy’s arms and legs.
	As she shuffles across the wet grass her belly feels as though it will explode.
	The sun, after the unexpected downpour, now seems to burn hotter and brighter.
	Her lips are parched and cracked.
	Sweat pours into her eyes, strands of hair stuck to her forehead, the imprints of the cinder-blocks etched across her welted back, the carved word FUCKSLUT now almost illegible, dark purplish loops left by the ropes on her wrists, ankles and tits.
	And then finally she stands over the grave, dropping the mutilated limbs into it,  her daughter scattered like pieces of a human jigsaw puzzle on top of the plastic bags that contain Tim and Billy.  
	The killers circle her.
	She’s sobbing pitifully, her shoulders rocking.
	Kessler runs a piece of rope through the eyelets at the base of the carbonized steel shafts which protrude from Julie’s burned and ravaged cunt and asshole.
	She’s told to straddle the shallow grave, her feet sinking into the dark mud on either side of the pit, small insects buzzing around her face, her thighs cramping painfully.
	Kessler tugs on the rope and the metal dildos begin to pull free.
	“Uuuugghhhhh!” Julie grunts, her head toppling forward, her arms folded over her bleeding mangled tits, gouged hands gripping her shoulders.
	“Ugghhhhiiieeeeeee!”
	“Push, cunt!” the men shout.
	“Push those dildos out!”
	“Yeah! Do it, bitch!. C’mon!”
	“UUWWHHGGGHHHHH!”
	The metal shafts tear slowly free taking pieces of Julie’s flesh with them. She writhes rigidly, groans, yells, screams at the top of her lungs as the stoppers slide out into the grave and are followed immediately by a gushing release of urine and shit which jets shamelessly from her, from both holes as she crouches over the remains of her family.
	“Good, Julie,” Larissa exclaims. “Good girl...let it all out...all of it...push...mmmm....isn’t that nice? Come on! Uhh yessss all of it!”
	Julie’s mind trips out. She’s giving birth to Billy. The nurses are urging her on in the white room, the doctors.
	“Come on, Julie. You can do it. Push, Julie. Push!”
	Her fingers grip the ground, her body is crouched and coiled.
	Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
	“Yeahh, bitch,” Riemann shouts. “YEahhh! Shit all over them! That’s it.
You stinking scumbag whore. Look at the pig, shitting all over her dead family.”
	“Didn’t know she had it in her,” Kirkwood jeers.
	“Fuckin’ tramp,” Robeson adds.
	Tramp. Tramp. You’re a tramp. You’re trash, Julie. Trash. Trash.  All women are trash.  All women want is to be forced, to be taken, to be made to
take what men want from them.  They live in senseless confusion most of their
fucked up lives. Fueled up with hormones or the lack of them, bleeding out their
twats every fucking month.  Needing to be filled and stopped up and then needing
to expel.  Stupid fucking whores.  You don’t see too many men marrying rich
old women do you, Julie? Do you? No. But you see lots of pretty young things
with men that could be their grandfathers. That’s because women are cunts.
Walking cunts that only care about themselves and their comfort and survival
and well being.  But once you take that away you’ve got nothing but a stinking
dog. Look at you. Worse than a dog. Stinking whoremeat. Dirtbag. Scumslut.
Just - fucking - look - at - you.  You went out there on Camille road to strut yourself, didn’t you? Yeah. Strutting your stupid teenage bimbo cunt. And you should have died that night but you went on.  You should have died up on that fence with Larissa but you went on with your stupid empty suburban life thinking you were better than most people or luckier. Tramp. Trashwhore. The men in the motels, those men that didn’t even know your name but who beat you and marked you, they knew.  Those men on the Internet too, they knew. They wanted to put you in your place and you wanted to let them but you were too afraid. Because another thing women are is afraid. Afraid of their own goddamn shadows, afraid of the harsh punishing hands that will take them and rip them apart. But they also want it. They need it. They crave to face it. To be blown apart by fear and rage and humiliated and brought down.  Just look at you, Julie. Just fucking look at you and what you’ve become.  You’re finally what you’ve always been. Tramp. Trash. Whore. Scumbag. Piece-of-shit slut.
	You’re slaughtermeat, Julie. That’s all you’ve ever been.
	All you’ll ever be.

	The four killers circled their slaughterwhore and watched her shit and piss on her butchered family.
	They stood over her like conqueror kings.
	They drank another round of beers and gulped down more uppers, high-fived each other, talked over the events of the passing day, speculated about the success of  Bloody Snuff #4, laughed at the crouching woman in the mud, did a few more lines of coke.
	And soon, very soon, they were already hard again and ready for more.
	The afternoon was starting to fade. The rain had moved on. The lake’s surface was like glass in the waning sunlight.
	When Julie had emptied her bowels and bladder she was pulled to the wet thick grass by the grave on her knees.
	The four killers circled her and she served them, moving wordlessly from one cock to the other using her mouth to work them up, to prepare them
for the night of slaughter that still lay ahead.
	She kissed their muddy feet and licked their strong thighs and bellies.
	She cupped their balls in her bloody hands and licked their assholes as they moaned, chuckled, called her names, grunted and enjoyed her.  They pissed on her face and pissed in her throat and she welcomed it, her eyes blown out, her mind wasted, her sense of self completely erased. They pissed on her back across the ugly word knife-scrawled and unreadable under welts and cuts - they pissed in her burned, swollen, beaten, gashed out cunt and asshole and their urine stung her wounds and she pushed her head to the ground on her knees to let them slam-fuck her and she leaned over the edge of the grave and looked down into the mess that had been Sandy strewn over the garbage bags that held Billy and Tim spattered with blood, shit and piss while the men took turns to grip her by her hips and rape her right there on the edge of the muddy pit.
	Tears glimmered in her eyes but her throat moaned with ecstasy.
	Her wounded hands sank into the muddy dirt, into the roots of the thick grass.
	She was free now. Free to belong to the killers. Free to give herself completely without care or shame.
	And one after the other the men emptied their balls inside her, in her burned out cunt, using their trashed slaughterwhore hard then dragging her back to the clearing.
	They chained her to the rear bumper of the Caravan by her neck and she waited silently on her knees in the dirt road as the men filled the open grave by the lake and dismantled the implements of torture to carry them back into the shed near the clearing.
	She tasted the men in her mouth.
	Gradually, her spike-gouged hands moved down her beaten body to her pussy.
	She pried her burned stinging burn-swelled labia apart and the killers’ semen flowed back out of her down her thighs.
	She smiled and craned her head back to look at the distant sky.
	Free. She was free of everything now. Of husband, of children, of all social obligations and connections.
	Slowly but urgently she began to stroke her singed clit and then to push her fingers up inside her charred ravaged lovehole. She dabbed her fingertips in the cum inside her burned out cunt and on her legs and brought it up to her lips to lick it and drink it.
	The metal stud on her tongue felt cold against her fingertips.
	She knew her fate - was no longer afraid - was, in fact, eager for it.
	The men were going to kill her.
	Womanblood was going to flow.
	A river of womanblood.
	She bit her lip and moaned softly as her bruised bloody thighs pressed together on her hands.
	By the time the killers finished she had already climaxed several times.
	When the men returned to the vehicles they were captivated by the depraved behavior of the once conventional Seatown housewife.
	They circled around her, amused, and watched her masturbate herself.
	“Pig,” they snarled.
	“Stinking pig.”
	“Can you fuckin’ believe it?”
	She looked up at them her eyes blazing with desire, her bruised nose-busted beaten  face full of desperate yearning.
	“I want to die for you,” she moaned feebly, her fingers working desperately between her ravaged thighs.
	“Please. Break me. Finish me. Cut me to pieces.”
	Riemann smiled, leaned over her and rubbed his cock slowly on her face.
	“That’s exactly what we’re gonna do, honeybunch,” he said softly.  “Exactly what we’re gonna do.”

27. Woman-slaughter 
(Monday 6 PM)

	Julie leaned back against the stone wall of the killing room and watched, standing on her pierced, cut-up feet, looked on, the whip-handle in her left hand, the whip-handle half way up her bleeding charred-black pussy hole, Kessler’s whip inside her, so sweetly inside her, her feet apart on the floor, her beaten body aroused, her once mournful eyes now hollow with masochistic desire, one eye almost bruised shut, nose darkly swollen, a spiked ball gag filling her mouth, strapped around her head, leather cuffs around her wrists and ankles, black leather cuffs with metal o-rings on them placed tightly on her making her beaten body easily accesible to any form of bondage - hard cuffs, she knowingly accepted, holding her limbs out for the men to put them on her.
	 Julie Winnfried, snuff-meat, burned-out, broken-nosed, blood-smeared slaughter-slut, watched the men, her killer lovers, work on Darla and Karyn as she masturbated herself with the barbed flogger handle.
	Now and then she turned her head away,  pressed her hot cheek to the
cold wall, eyes closed as the pleasure exploded inside her.
	The killers did terrible things to the women, terrible and beautiful things, things that drew Julie’s eyes and made her long for their punishing hands.
	Kessler had handed her the whip earlier and told her:
	“Fuck yourself with it.”
	He’d watched her for a while - she loved it when He watched - then returned to the action in the center of the killing room.
	Darla and Karyn had been unhooked from each other.
	After spending all day in ghastly bondage they were ready to collapse.
	Instead the men had put leashes around their necks and roped their hands behind them, roped their elbows together, hauled them upstairs to the main killing room where Julie had been left waiting.
	Robeson and Kirkwood took the leashed bitches and while they pulled them around the chamber they whipped them first with long wooden dowels then with multi-tongued floggers.  The floggers had tiny wood-frame nails festooned on their wickedly thin tails and as the women were whipped the nails tore into their beaten hot-welted flesh to rip gashes and tiny cuts out of them.
	Heavy yokes were put on Karyn and Darla, wood blocks with holes for their necks and wrists. The ropes were removed and the women were forced into this more awkward bondage-dance, forced to carry the twenty pound yokes on their shoulders and to keep their arms up and away from their body facilitating access to their backs and asscheeks for the cruel studded floggers and the dowels.  A small o-ring on the front of the yoke, beneath the victim’s head, allowed the leashes to be clipped there so that the men could continue pulling the slaughterwhores around the room as they castigated them, positioning where they willed.
	Julie pitied Darla and Karyn. She knew that, unlike herself, the two women would never accept the killing pain.  They would be unwilling victims of 
the sadists, beaten and humiliated, but never crossing over the final threshold of submission as Julie had.  They were beautiful victims though and they made
Julie’s heart race as they cried out and sobbed and begged for mercy.  The yokes around their necks which also trapped their wrists and hands emphasized their plight: yoked, enslaved slaughterwhores serving their masters to the end with their suffering, wrenched and jerked around, jumping and swaying to the rhythm of the swinging floggers and the swishing rods. The hateful jeering words of the men made Julie smile and quiver and thrust the whip handle deep into her aching burn-fucked cunt.  The thin nail-studded whip-tongues grazed Julie’s whipped, spear-burned thighs and she sighed, her right hand wandering over the spear wounds in her tits, over the rough edges of the one piercing that went all the way through her left breast and which Riemann had earlier violated with his prick. It trickled blood and plasmic fluid.  Furtively her hand moved down her bruised beaten skin to press into the shallower wounds in her lower belly, against the feverish need to hurt and die that hummed inside her.
	On the way back from the lake, in Kessler’s van, Robeson and Riemann
had fucked her throat and raped her on the floor of the vehicle between the 
seats. The fading light of sunset had filtered through the passing trees as she’d looked up through the van’s tinted windows.  The men said nothing.  There
was no longer any need for words.  They used her animalistically, ramming into her punished body, squeezing her throat, choke-fucking her.  When their cocks pistoned in and out of her she saw blood and bits of burned flesh stick to them and the pain made her head swim. She bled on the floor of the van and cried.
	The road hissed by under them and she spread herself opening herself up wide for their plundering attacks.
	Unbearable images of Sandy being ripped in half flickered in her mind.
	Whatever the killers had in mind for her from that point on no longer preoccupied Julie. Nothing could be bad enough to punish her for all the misery she’d caused.
	When they finally made it back to the warehouse she was dragged unceremoniously from the van and up the metal stairway.
	In the office all four of them had a go at her on the desk where Sandy
had been raped earlier that day.
	Still the men said nothing.
	She sensed the rising animal excitement in them. She was swept up by it, caught up in it, like a sailboat on storm-tossed waves. 
	After their extreme indulgence at Talon lake the killers had arrived at a prehistoric place beyond spoken language, a place of soul-less lust.
	She joined them there, gave herself to it.
	The room was filled only with the sound and friction of pummeling flesh.
	Their cruel eyes had said all that needed to be said as they’d fucked her and punched her and choked her and she’d looked back at them and answered their sadism with love, with longing, eventually with lust, slaughter-slut now sharing and co-operating in her own violent destruction.  She’d hung her head back off the edge of the hard wooden surface and as Kessler had fucked her up the ass, Riemann had slammed his thick shaft up her throat slamming her skull against the desk almost knocking her out. Robeson and Kirkwood took their own turns in her mouth and then Kessler lay across the desk and  she was made to ride him, his cock up her asshole.  Robeson had pushed his long prick deep into her savaged pussy while Kirkwood and Riemann simultaneously pushed their cocks into her mouth.  All four men had thrust into her eagerly, panting and growling, and she’d been glad to satisfy all of them at the same time just as she’d satisfied them at the lake, by the shallow grave where Sandy, Billy and Tim lay broken. It pleased her to be fucked in her burned out ass and cunt. It was a fitting punishment for a scumbag whore that had sunk as low as she had.
	Robeson had pulled out of her pussy and cruelly pushed his phallus into her asshole with Kessler’s, both of them in her, ass-raping her simultaneously. Riemann had pushed his cock into the spear-hole in her breast making her sob brokenly as Kirkwood deep-throated her.  All four of the killers had used her brutally, worked themselves up on her, then as if on cue they’d yanked her off the desk lifting and mounting her on Riemann’s cock, her thighs around his wide hips, her arms around his powerful shoulders, her bloody hands framing the snarling head of the dragon tattoo.  She’d leaned her cheek on his shoulder as he had carried her down the stairs into the warehouse, her charred cunt full of him, the others following close behind.  She felt like a little girl clinging to her daddy, being carried, helpless, her feet crossed over his firm asscheeks. 
	She went willingly. Surrendering to the inevitable.  
	Just five days earlier she’d railed against and feared her killers, fought the idea that control of her life had been stolen from her. Now she was glad to give up all control. And the idea that strangers would be watching her physical and psychological destruction no longer sickened or frightened her. It excited her, gave her a feeling of going beyond herself, of breaking through, of leaving the weight of morality and responsibility behind.   Suddenly the thought that the same men would watch Sandy be ripped apart over and over again made her heart race wildly, made her drool and groan weakly.  Where was the grief, the pity for her children and her husband’s unjust deaths?  She had not only given herself to the killers - in a way she had given up her own flesh and blood, her offspring, Billy and Sandy. Her children had died for the pleasure of the killers. As had Tim.  Sandy’s horrific death would satiate the appetite of the sick voyeurs who purchased Kessler’s videos. Highlight freeze-frames of the ten year old’s crude dismemberment would be passed around on the Internet (though it would be dismissed as fake).  Guilt and lust fused confusingly in Julie’s mind.  Just as years before she’d cried in her pillow thinking about Larissa only to find herself helplessly aroused now she gave in to the craving that burned in her.  She knew that she had not only given herself and her family to the killers - she’d given them her soul.
	When Riemann had carried her into the killing room the men had stood her up against the wall and put the cuffs on her, the spiked ball gag in her mouth, and left her to wait there alone, her hands in her bleeding pussy, while they went to get the women downstairs, the blonde and the redhead, Darla and Karyn.
	Alone Julie was nothing. Alone she was empty.
	She ceased to exist and hung on every silent moment in the killing room until the killers finally returned.
	She then stood watching them play with the victims, pulling them around
by their leashed necks and whipping them, slashing at their legs and tits.
	Kessler had handed him his whip and told her to fuck herself with it.
	The leather cuffs felt good around her ankles and wrists.
	She liked being cuffed and cuffed tight.
	She was a slave and slaves needed to be restrained.
	She liked the spiked ball in her mouth.
	The spikes hurt her lips and her studded tongue.
	It made it hard to speak.  Slaves did not need to speak.  Slaves needed to accept whatever was demanded in silence. Slaves needed to hurt.
	She needed to hurt. Wanted to hurt. Fully and richly deserved it.
	Again and for a fleeting moment she saw Sandy screaming as the killers finished her and again Julie felt bottomless guilt engulf her.
	The whip-handle was hard inside her, hard and cruel, the way she needed it to be.
	Blood dripped from the nails on the tongues that licked at her thighs.
	The blood of Karyn and Darla.
	She rose up high on her toes, as high as she could, to slide the full length of whip-handle deep into herself, weapon-fucking herself, impaling herself on
the torture tool and she watched Darla and Karyn twist and cry out in their heavy yokes and occasionally glance over at her, incredulous, wide-eyed, as the killers whipped them and let them yank around on the end of the leashes.  Their eyes seemed to ask: ‘How can you? How can you watch this and be part of it and be turned on by it? You’re a woman like us. You’re a victim like us. How can you?’ It was the sense of betrayal in their eyes she most enjoyed. That was what made her thrust the whip handle into herself as deep as it could go.
 	Yes, she said silently with her eyes.
	I have betrayed you. I have betrayed myself and my family. 
	Long ago I betrayed Larissa, letting her go to her death unaccompanied.
	I am a lying, selfish, traitorous cunt.
	I have betrayed my own children.
	I have betrayed myself.
	I am what you see.
	Slut-meat for the killers.
	Slave-meat.
	Slaughter-meat.
	Prepared to die for the pleasure of the men that own me.
	And then the killers took long thin fiberglass rods to the two yoked women.
	Thin cruel weapons.
	The hot slashing sounds of the rods on woman-meat made Julie cum against the scraping whip handle and she slid down to her knees quivering and groaning in pleasure.
	When she looked up again Kessler was standing over her, his hand moving slowly back and forth on his hook-arched cock, his other hand holding the
video-cam steady on his shoulder as he focused on her needy face.
	Behind him the men had hoods on now.
	The leashed women were being viciously swatted and thrashed across their legs and thighs with the fiberglass rods.  Robeson and Kirkwood held the 
ends of the leashes,  Stan taking his blonde slaughterwhore Darla around the room and slashing at her while Bill dragged redheaded Karyn around him in
tight circles giving her the business end of his rod.  Riemann moved between them with a long spike-studded wooden dowel in hand which he used on both heavily yoked sluts repeatedly as they swung near him.
	“Pleeze,” Julie said, gag-muffled, holding the whip up to Kessler.
	“Pleeehze.”
	She needed what the women were getting.  That and more.  Her flesh demanded it.
	Kessler put the camera down, reached out and took the whip.
	“Kneel up nice and straight for me,” he told her. “Hold your tits up for it.”
	She obeyed. Eager.  Her breasts were already gashed and beaten and pierced but if that’s what her master wanted she would give. She would give until she could not give any more.
	She cupped her beaten mammaries in her leather-cuffed hands, knelt there and waited, looking down, hearing the punishing blows of the fiberglass rods crashing across Karyn and Darla.
	She didn’t have to wait long.
	Kessler stepped up close and began to thrash Julie’s mangled tits with the
nail-studded whip with which she’d just masturbated herself. He could smell the stink of her burned cuntmeat on it.
	He gave her four sharp blows and her head craned back, eyes closed, lips parted, her brows furrowed.
	“Hahrder,” she groaned. “Pleeaze - hahggrder -”
	Kessler growled and began to slash his spike-ball-gagged slaughterwhore’s tits with all his strength.
	The sharp little nails tore at the welted, pierced, spear-burned meat.  They
tore cut-lines through what was left of her nipples making her scream and grip her tits tighter and kneel up straighter and wail.  They cut her arms and shoulders and chest and Kessler snarled and put his heart into it.  He loved it when a bitch
gave herself to him this way.  It happened rarely but when it did it was amazing.
He could whip this stupid whore right down to the bone and she would kneel there and take it.  He, Riemann and his men had taken everything from this
slut. Everything. And there she was on her knees giving still more, begging
for more, telling him to beat her harder.
	He slashed at her neck and at her belly and at her thighs, swishing back and forth and then he returned to her tits, her filthy fucking whore-tits.
	“Scumbag,” he spat. “Goddamn stinking worthless piece of shit scumbag.”
	Julie screamed to each slash but her pussy throbbed and her hips
twitched as she orgasmed.  The whip tore her breasts to shreds and blood
sprayed off her,  sprayed her cheeks.
	“Yuhh yuhh yeaggh yeaaah,” she groaned between strokes. “Yeah -aaggg! oowwwhhh! aaoowww!”
	The first time Kessler had whipped her four days earlier he’d barely striped her skin now he was fleecing her, ripping her to shreds and she was taking it for him, holding what was left of her tits up for him.  He was whipping her so hard now that the nails were embedding themselves in her meat.  Cursing, he ripped the whip-tongues out of her only to bring them down again, making them snag and gouge into her.
	“Scumbag.”
	The nail-studded tongues, extensions of his fierce lustful hatred of female crashed into her, wounded her, bled her and she begged for more.
	“We’re gonna kill you, whore - we’re gonna kill you -”
	The wind-slicing sound of the tongues as they crashed down on her
was high and shrill and in the background she could hear Darla and Karyn receiving the hard swats of the fiberglass rods that now tore skin and muscle and cut the yoke-bound bitches to shreds.
	“Yuuh - ahh,” she grunted, the spiked ball keeping her lips stretched wide. “Ohh yeaggh - oh khiill me - Aaoowww! - Khh-ill me! Awwgghhh!”
	“Get on your feet,” Kessler ordered. “Face the wall and spread your fucking legs wide.”
	She struggled to obey cocking one leg under her and leaning, half-turned against the wall to lift herself up on her stinging feet.
	Kessler didn’t make it easy on her, never letting up on his slashing attack
as she got into the position he wanted her in, aiming his blows at her sides and hips, at her arms, anywhere he could strike.  As she rose up and turned her back to him, her arms reaching up to the ceiling, her hands grabbing at the wall he
slashed viciously at her ass and thighs and at her back raking the nails all over
her punished welted flesh.
	Julie pressed herself to the wall crying fitfully, gasping with the new
hurt.  Her hands scratched at the concrete surface of the killing room wall way
up above her head.
	She wondered how many women had been murdered in this room, how many helpless screaming females. Did any of them want it or need it as much as she? Down the wall from her if she opened her eyes she could see Mara Lane’s crumpled broken naked carcass in a pool of blood, red high-heel sandals pointed at the ceiling.  In the center of the room Darla and Karyn were being murderously rod-caned and their pleading anguished voices echoed in the cavernous warehouse.  The sounds of the beating, the grunts of the men, Julie’s own pain sounds reverberated in her ears as she pressed her torn tits against the wall and sagged under Kessler’s unsparing attack. 
	All those women hurting and bleeding.
	Receiving the killing pain.
	Kessler had shown her the snuff videos on the night of her capture and now as she squeezed herself against the dirty unpainted wall the images pulsed through
her mind. Womanflesh. Womanblood. Spilled and spilling.  She saw the dead
girls hanging in the refrigerated chamber and the grave markers in the ground behind the warehouse and her own grave waiting like an open cunt.  Her hips swayed from side to side as Kessler’s nail-studded whip tore from right to left, from left to right, from right to left, from left to right.  He forced her to dance against the wall, to rub her beaten, burned, ravaged pussymeat against the concrete.  He swung the whip up from the floor into her filthy snatch and down from above into her spine.  The tips of the tails grazed her cheeks and arms and she sobbed, wide-mouthed, the spiked ball pushing into her mouth as her face turned against the wall.
	The video cameras were rolling.
	Right to left, left to right, Kessler’s whip swung as he cursed her.
	“Scumbag bitch whore.”
	He flayed the skin off the sides of her legs, tore at her calves.
	“Ayhggghh!” she keened, her head banging against the wall as her body
fought the beating, jerked wildly to it.
	“-hunhh - unhh - ehuh ii-hhuww! Ohh! Ohh! Ohh! uwwhhggghh!”
	“Filthy stinking scumbag bitch whore.”
	He hated her, wanted her dead, she could feel it in the way he hit her and she fed on it, gave herself up to it, burned with love for her spiteful killer, deep soulful love that she knew would only be responded to with cold, hateful cruelty.
	Julie danced to the pain, her blood speckling the wall.
	Kessler’s whip tore across her back, tore across the scrawl-lines that spelled out what she was, the word Riemann had cut into her, FUCKSLUT - already undecipherable under a hash of welts and slices and pierce-wounds.
	She could hear all the women screaming, the wall vibrating against her
stomach with the deafening sounds, the crashing, rending, tearing of bodies. She
could hear them calling to her, reaching for her from the other side of the
barrier as her nails scratched the stone and her hips swung and jiggled. She knew then they’d all needed it in one way or another, whether they were aware of it or not.  All the females that had died there had deserved nothing more and nothing less than what they got at the hands of the eager killers. Then she was sliding down to the floor weakly and Kessler’s was wrapping the whip-tongues around her neck and yanking her back up on her feet and pulling her out into the room away from the wall - into the killing area - where the cameras could see - where the customers could get what they paid for.
	
				____________________

	A circular rotating platform is set up.
	It was once a spinning wheel, a carousel kids would climb on to in a playground and push gleefully into motion with their feet riding while clinging to handrail bars but the killers have adapted it for their own macabre use.
	It is elevated, mounted on a greased axle which rises from a wide square base, three feet off the ground.
	There are three stainless steel autopsy trays mounted on the platform, each with manacles near the hub of the platform-wheel and leather straps out on the edges.
	Darla and Karyn are no longer yoked. Julie has joined them in the center of the killing room.
	The three docile snuff-victims are led to the device and made to lie on the trays on their backs, their wrists manacled above their heads, their legs dangling off the edges of the platform, strapped down by the thighs, legs spread open.
	On one end of the room a cauldron grill smoulders full of reddish glowing coals. Knives, sharp steel pins, tongs, are propped up on the edges.  On the other side of the circular platform, on the opposite side of the room a small table has been laid out with surgical instruments.
	The hooded killers take up their positions: Kessler with the burning instruments, Riemann with the cutting ones, Robeson and Kirkwood with
wooden billy clubs in their hands and leather tool-belts buckled around their waists, also on opposing sides.
	The platform will allow the women to be rotated from one kind of
punishment and torture to another as the wheel is spun and it will allow
each of the four killers to work on each of the slaughterwhores individually except for Kirkwood and Robeson who will take one bitch between them, a different one with each rotation.
	Outside, night has already fallen as the sadists move in and begin their grisly work.
	The video cameras mounted on the four walls of the killing chamber
whirr softly as they focus and pan automatically.
	Riemann has a couple of specific objectives. He wants to take Darla’s tits and Karyn’s cunt.  He’s not sure about Julie yet but he’s leaning toward
removing the bloody nipples and the cunt-lips. He wants her to outlast the other two victims but wants her seriously mutilated as well.  
	Kessler looks forward to burning and piercing the bitches randomly.
	Kirkwood wants to break some bones and Robeson wants to pull out
fingernails and bash some whoregut.
	Robeson begins by pushing his hard meat into Julie’s punished cunt as Kirkwood climbs up on the platform to pull the spike gag from her lips and
rub his balls on her face brandishing his billy club and smiling, crouching over
the helplessly bound female.
	“I love you, M-master” Julie moans into Kirkwood’s hot sweaty stinking genital sacs her voice muffled by the wrinkled flesh. “I love you.”
	Riemann pushes his cock deep into Darla’s asshole as she groans, looking up at him.
	He takes the scalpel and shows it to her.
	Kessler takes a heated pin from the coals in the grill and lifts it with the tongs to Karyn’s bound leg.  
	As he sinks his cock into Karyn’s cunt Kessler pushes the hot metal into the pliant skin and at the same time Riemann sinks the blade of his scalpel into the base of Darla’s fat whipped, burn-smeared tit-globe and Robeson smacks his club against Julie’s shins and Kirkwood takes a pair of pliars from his tool belt and begins to yank out Julie’s right index fingernail while he stuffs his cock down her throat growling:
	“Love me? Huh? You love me? Yeah? That’s nice. That’s real nice.”
	The tortured females scream wildly as the video tape rolls.
	Blood spurts and flows on the autopsy trays.
	Warm and fresh.
	The platform is spun to the right.
	Kessler works on Darla pressing hot pins into the screaming blonde’s belly, her babbling head shaking from side to side, her right tit half cut away.  Robeson
and Kirkwood gang up on Karyn, Kirkwood rubbing his asshole on her face while he takes a hammer and smashes her fingers against the platform breaking the joints before taking the pliars to yank out the fingernails, Robeson smacking her knees with the billy club.  Julie shrieks and squirms as Riemann takes her left nipple and lifts it up on the end of a surgical clamp.  The spear hole in her punished pap bleeds as he puts the edge of the scalpel to her stretched nub.  She watches him begin to cut as his cock pushes deep into her burned cunt.
	“ -l -love you - I love y-you -” she whines.
	He just stares at her as he slices her nipple away.
	Again the platform is spun.
	Red droplets trickle off the edges.
	Riemann doesn’t miss a beat. As soon as Karyn is before him he thrusts the
scalpel down into her cunt mound and begins slicing.  The smell of cut-open whoremeat excites him visibly.  He plunges the scalpel tip into her urethra and grinds the cutting instrument downward.  The young slut pisses urine and blood on to his hand and into the spattered autopsy tray underneath her.  Her shrieks are deafening and her arms pull uselessly against the manacles. Metal rattles on metal.  As he cuts her with one hand Riemann reaches up to clutch her throat and choke out her screams.
	Kessler smiles ruthlessly as he pushes hot steel pins through Julie’s gouged hands.
	“How about me, pig?” he asks her. “Do you love me? Huh? Do you?”
	The wild womanscreams and the low grunting growls of the men are punctuated by  the hard smacks of Robeson’s and Kirkwood’s clubs.
	“Yesssss!” Julie groans as the hot steel rips through her tendons.
	Robeson pounds Darla’s kicking feet. He takes pliars from his tool belt to rip out her toe nails. Her big toe gives him the hardest task but also the most rewarding as he slowly tears the red glossed nail-shell out of its moorings, blonde cuntpig screeching frenetically, totally lost.  Kirkwood takes his club to the blonde’s ribs delivering twenty solid blows changing the range and volume of her cries, bruising her pale flesh and fracturing her bones, before the platform is rotated again.
	The device completes its first rotation as Karyn returns to Kessler. Her cunt is half cut out of her.  He lifts a glowing coal in the tongs and pushes it
into her screaming mouth. Pushes another coal up her asshole.
	Kirkwood steps down off the platform. Between him and Robeson they
club Julie’s ankles and feet.  They rip the toenails out of her left foot and
smack the right foot until some of the bones shatter.  Kirkwood slams his heavy carpenter’s hammer into the nub of Julie’s ankle joint shattering it.
	“Still love me, pig?!” he shouts at her.
	“Awghhh godddd yesss!” she screams in the midst of mind-twisting pain.
	“Break meee! Uwwhhh! F-finish mmeeee!”
	Riemann completes the scalpel cut around Darla’s magnificent right breast removing it completely from her and dropping it on the table next to the other
cutting instruments.
	As the men arrive at the height of sadistic excitement they work
purposefully, methodically.  They no longer speak or make any sound other than an occasional groan of pleasure when some delicious torture is executed or when they pause to thrust themselves into their wounded slaughterwhores.  The overhead lights gleam on their sweaty bodies, on their black-hooded faces.  There is an occasional flash of their teeth as they smile or sneer.  
	The whores sweat and bleed and scream as they are slowly broken, burned, cut, beaten and mutilated.
	Kessler takes a long thin skewer, red hot from the coals in the cauldron. He sits atop  Darla Bessinger’s mutilated chest, turns her head to the right pressing her cheek down against the bloody metal tray and holding the pin with the tongs he inserts the skewer into the shrieking slutpig’s left ear piercing all the way through her eardrum. He then swings her head over on the other side and drives the skewer deep into her right ear.  The blinding pain drives the blonde slaughterwhore over the edge of sanity.  Now deafened by the intrusion of hot metal she hears crashing roaring thundering noise in her head as she babbles incoherently. After seven rotations of the platform the once beautiful statuesque blonde businesswoman is titless, bleeding from ears and her cunt has been clubbed, pierced with hot pins, beaten purple. One of her legs is broken.  All her fingernails have been removed and her hands are smashed. One of her feet is broken and most of her toenails are gone.  One knee cap has been crushed and the other cracked.
	Karyn Waters cunt has been cut from her, neatly, and she has been revived several times as blood pours out of her.  Robeson and Kessler’s clubs have
smashed her guts causing several internal hemorraghes and smashing her
gall bladder and liver. Both her hands are mangled and all her finger and toe nails are gone.  Both her ankles have been snapped and both her feet are broken.
The coals have burned the inside of her mouth and her anal opening black before being yanked out.  A metal pin has been driven through her left eyelid and through the eyeball underneath permanently closing it and destroying it. The redhead is now a hideous scarecrow her own mother would not even recognize.
	Julie’s nipples, aureolae and labia have been removed.  Her tits have been beaten to a pulp and three of her ribs are shattered.  Hot metal pins have been driven through her feet and legs and her toes and fingers have been broken.
	The metal trays the women lie on are puddled with slutblood.
	The cameras continue to whirr and pan.

				____________________

	The killers take a brief respite from the slaughter to down some more uppers and wash them down with cool mineral water.
	Their bodies are blood-spattered. Kirkwood and Robeson have unbuckled the tool belts from their waists and tossed them on the floor.
	They circle the bloody whores on the carousel-platform studying them, reaching out to touch the beaten bodies, to rub their cocks on them while they drink from the plastic bottles.
	“This ones’ almost had it,” Kessler comments lifting Karyn’s head up by her hair for the other men to look at her.  She is pale, breathing weakly, blood
streaming from her gouged out womb. Several teeth have been yanked out of her mouth and her beaten face is bruised and swollen.  Pins have been pierced through her earlobes and nose, one through her upper lip.
	He spits a mouthful of water on her face reviving her slightly then he crouches over her pushing his cock in her face.
	“Suck,” he grunts.
	Feebly the redhead scarecrow opens its blood-smeared lips and cups its killer’s shaft. He takes it by its hair and pistons its head up and down a few times.
	“Still got a little action left in ‘er,” he concludes and rises stepping off the platform as the men laugh.
	Kirkwood lifts one of Darla’s bruise-splotched amputated breasts from where Riemann left it on the table near the cutting instruments.
	“Should be able to get three steaks outta this,” he says holding the severed mammary up for the others to see.
	“Just remember to save me the nipples,” Kessler quips. He remembers his first view of Darla and Karyn on the street in Whitehall, remembers the way Darla’s tits had bounced as she’d walked with her client, so confident, so energetic. Her big nipples had pushed through the fabric of her pink blouse.  He’s going to enjoy roasting them on the coals, chewing them slowly and swallowing them, washing them down with chilled wine, after the killing.
	“Don’t forget,” Riemann comments as he runs his fingers over the rough cut-out circles where Darla’s tits were. She looks up at him, deaf, dazed and trembling. “We’ve got Julie’s nipples and cunt lips too. And there will be more before we’re done I’m sure.”
	“I see a hell of a banquet comin’,” Robeson says standing over Julie staring down at her with a gloating smile. “Nothin’ we coulda ordered at Walker’s though, is it Julie?”
	The men laugh.
	“I sure don’t remember seeing anything like this on their menu,” Kirkwood jokes.
	Gradually the laughter subsides. The men are quiet again and their eyes under the hoods are slivers of gray steel.
	“...love y-you...” Julie mutters softly almost to herself. “...love you...”
	Slow-stroking themselves the killers climb the rotating platform and begin to use the destroyed females, fucking them, making them suck and lick cock, taking the orgy to a new high. They especially enjoy thrusting their hot manmeat into Karyn’s cuntless hole, right into her gashed uterus, gut-fucking the dying female, rubbing their assholes and balls on her bloody belly and on her disfigured face.  Kessler sucks and nibbles on Julie’s nipple-less, spear-gouged tits and pinches her clit between his fingers to fuck her lipless cunthole.  He squeezes her broken hands in his making her scream with pain.  He kneels on her broken ribcage to slap her face and rub his cock on it.  She begs to suck his cock and he lets her pushing his knees into her chest as she groans and winces in agony.
	The women are released from the manacles and straps and swung on their bellies to be fucked up the ass and slashed with the studded whips as they lie face down on the bloody autopsy trays.
	Robeson uses his billy club on their legs and backs and shoulders bruising them.  He breaks Darla’s elbow and Julie’s shoulderblade and shoves his club
deep into Karyn’s gutted cunt thrusting it right into her intestines.
	Riemann sodomizes Julie and strangles her with his studded flogger.

				____________________

	The slaughter orgy escalates.
	The women are pulled off the carousel.
	The rotating platform is pushed aside.
	A suspension line is lowered from the ceiling.
	Three steel skewers are heated on the cauldron grill.
	The bitches lie on the floor broken and bleeding.
	Nearby against the wall Marla Lane’s broken corpse still awaits disposal. 
	The slaughterwhores are ordered to get on their knees.
	Darla’s mind has tripped out.  Blood gushes from her ears and down her neck and shoulders. She is lost in a hazy memory of a childhood birthday party.  Her mom has given her a makeup kit, a large circular box decorated with big pink roses. When the lid is pulled open she sees her breasts neatly severed and pierced with hundreds of diamond pins inside.  Her father takes his belt off and wraps it around her neck to choke her.  The buckle of his belt is shaped like a scythe. He spits champagne in her eyes. Outside it is snowing but when she looks more closely the snow is really confetti, white and then red.  Instead of her father Kessler is standing over her. He is tugging her away from the passenger seat of the Lexus that has crashed into a tree.  Then she and Karyn are at the house, the house with the picture window and the fireplace and they are both nude on the finished hardwood floor and they are making love to each other, each with their faces in each other’s pussies, and there is a little girl standing there watching them with her head in her hands.
	“Momma said I could play,” the child’s head says.  She is a little blonde angel with cherry red lips. Her head bleeds from the neck stump and spatters her pink socks and white sneakers.
	“Momma said I could play.”
	And then as Darla comes up on her broken knees she screams with pain and the visions swirl away and thunder explodes in her head.  
	Across the room she can see the man with the dragon tattooed on his back, the dragonman that has cut her tits off her. He turns to glare at her.
	She looks down at her mutilated chest sobbing.
	Julie forces herself to remain conscious even though shafts of throbbing pain explode through her limbs.
	Karyn chokes and vomits blood and fades in and out. She hears children’s voices singing church hymns. She shits blood down her legs. Above the children’s voices she hears Ann Rowen’s severed head calling out for her momma.
	Somehow, like three crazed broken dolls, the women kneel in a semi-circle.
	They are told to raise their broken tortured hands to their faces, one hand on each side.
	Kessler takes one hot skewer at a time to drive it through each kneeling slut, piercing through palms and cheeks until the women are living imitations of
the German expressionist painter’s masterpiece ‘The Scream’, the skewers driven through their broken hands and lodged between their mandibles
	Then, snap-hooks clip to the skewers and to an o-ring secured on the end of the suspension line.
	As the line is slowly raised the women are pulled up by their hooked
faces and hands, pulled up on their broken limbs crying and babbling, blood
streaming from their open mouths.  They’re forced upward until they stand
on broken feet and legs, arched, sweating, bleeding, groaning.
	The four killers now take up strands of heavy metal chain and they begin to steel-flog their slaughterwhores violently.
	The heavy metal links swoosh through the air and thud crushingly into
whoremeat.
	Darla grunts and gasps for air as the chains thud into her.  She looks wild eyed into the beaten faces of the two women that hang with her in torment.  She sees them take the impact of the chains.  Karyn vomits blood into the eyes and cheeks of the other two women. Of the three Julie is the only one that can successfully carry her own weight, even though her toes are bits of shattered swollen girlmeat.  Karyn’s ankles are both broken and she just hangs from the skewer to avoid the horrible pain of trying to stand.  Darla can stand on one foot butthe striking chains make her shift and when she puts her weight on the broken
one her eyes roll back in her head and she choke-grunts and screams in agony.
	In Darla’s mind the three skewer-hung sluts are a small gyroscope toy
spinning on a marble floor.  She is in the house in Italy.  The Mediterranean
crashes against the reefs beyond the patio.  Statue fountains piss blood.
Strange dark men surround her and kick her. They punch her. Even though she is just a small child she is dragged to the edge of the cliffs and her pretty
orange dress is ripped from her and her white Mary Jane shoes and they nail
her to a tree by one cheek and punch her and rape her.
	“Putana!”  the men snarl. “Porca putana!”  - and they slam her body
with their strong hard fists. Shooting fires of pain throb inside her ears.
	And as she dangles and comes out of her vision it is the hard metal chains not the dark men’s fists that sweep up into her ribs and sides and hips and legs and back breaking her, smashing her.
	Julie looks into Darla’s beautiful blue eyes and knows the woman is gone, her mind has swirled away. Julie tries to hang on for the men to give her
the smashing pain. Yes the pain she wants. The pain she needs. The smashing
thrusting breaking pain. The killing pain. Yes! At last it is coming in hard
uncompromising bone-shattering bursts.  She makes screechy gagging noises trying to tell the men she loves them, trying to tell them to swing harder to break all of them down but her pierced mouth just bleeds and babbles unintelligibly.
	Karyn sags weakly looking one-eyed from Darla to Julie, their faces so close to her. She is lost in each gut-wrenching smash of the chains on her back and sides, each blow an infinite space of agony to cross and her broken feet cannot hold her up. She did not imagine torture like this could even be possible.  How can she not be dead or at the very least unconscious? But the men injected something into them earlier something that made everything suddenly as brilliant as shattered glass, every tiny wound and every choked breath and now the pain is interminable, unstoppable, unyielding.  She wonders how her parents will deal with her disappearance and the thought chokes her.  She knows these killers will leave no trace.  All their victims will vanish as if they never existed.   The chains smash across her spine and she hears a dull snap and a burst of color and light explodes in her head.  She tries to form words but it is useless, her nose and mouth deformed and swollen, so she just sags there and takes the bashing moving to and fro, twisting and circling in whatever direction the other two women move her, her pierced-shut eye dribbling and swollen.
	The four killers circle their three dangling slaughterwhores jerking off and swinging their chains across the gasping screaming victims.  This is woman slaughter at its best, three strong healthy females taking the limit of human 
pain and suffering for the murderous sadistic pleasure of their attackers.  This is what the men have been leading up to for the last four days, this glorious climactic moment of thrashing metal on broken whoremeat.  All their planning has been consummately executed, every move calculated to achieve this most
pleasing disastrous result.  Bloody Snuff #4 will be a crowning achievement, one  difficult to top or improve on.  It will become a hardcore underground classic that will continue to sell for years touching the lives and minds of thousands
of powerful men, affirming their sick masculine power, solidifying the supremacy of male hierarchy and control.  Scores of political projects throughout the world designed to end white slavery, prostitution and child exploitation will be shelved or weakened by men whose resolve will falter, whose moral purpose
will dissolve because of the dark images Kessler will provide and which they
will witness in some private room, unaware that other men too are seeing the
same images, unaware that they are sharing in a larger community of
unspoken masculine sadism fueled by greed and grounded in the deterministic
finality of hormones and genetic descendancy.  Instead, over the next few decades, the demand for illegal trade in young females will increase exponentially and several criminals in key places, Shangai, Thailand, Santo Domingo, some in Africa, some in Europe, some in Mexico and other South American countries, will make small fortunes.  Little oriental and hispanic girls will disappear off the face of the planet in droves.
	Womanblood will flow.
	
				____________________

	After the savage chainwhipping the slaughterwhores are cruelly freed from the skewers through their faces and hands, steel piercing rod yanked out, babbling sluts collapsing to the floor bleeding from their face wounds.
	More intense suffering is required.
	Always more and harder.
	Kessler produces the new device, a sleek phallic metal spear.  Depressing a button on the back end of the spear to test it, holding it up for the video-cams (and hence future male audiences) to witness, he causes the bulbed tip of the to spring open.  Five blade-sharp harpoon hooks, each about two inches long, pointed downward, erupt from the spear-tip with a loud metallic click. The killer smiles, then reaches up and carefully tucks the hooks back into the bulbed spear-tip until the mechanism clicks shut.
	Kirkwood and Robeson pull the redhead scarecrow Karyn up on its/her feet.  Its/Her arms are stretched upward into two steel cuffs dangling from a suspension chain.  One tug on the crank that works the chain and the grossly beaten one-eyed bitch hangs by her wrists, half dead, bleeding from her gashed out cunt, her broken feet forced to take her weight on nail-less toes, her broken hands swollen, trapped in the steel cuffs above her head.
	Kessler bends down to work the trick spear up into the bloodhole that is
Karyn’s vaginal opening.  He pushes it up into her, slides it in deep, keeps pushing when he comes to the end of the passage, slams it up angrily into her uterus and past that into her gutsac as she cries out weakly.  He pushes the full three foot length of the spear into the slaughterwhore and when the bottom of the weapon remains exposed he pushes the button.
	The loud metal click is followed by Mr. and Mrs. Waters once lovely young redheaded daughter wild-eyed wide-mouthed shriek as the harpoon hooks deploy in her guts tearing into her bashed liver, into the walls of her stomach, ripping a gash through the esophageal tube.  Tugging down on the spear Kessler lodges it firmly in the luckless female and then he connects an eyelet at the base of the spear with a short stretch of wire to an o-ring bolted into the ground between Karyn’s feet.
	Julie is brought up to standing position, dazed, weak.
	A sheet of tin is laid on the floor in front of Karyn.
	Wires lead from the metal sheet, which is four feet long and three feet,  wide, to a voltage regulator attached to a car battery which Riemann has set up next to Karyn.
	Julie is now made to stand on the sheet of tin right in front of Karyn, facing the speared bitch. Then, Julie is pulled up on her bashed bloody toes by overhead handcuffs on the end of another suspension chain and one of her legs is raised back and bound to her thigh forcing her to stand on one broken arched foot atop the strip of wired tin.
	The central suspension chain she hangs from is the same one that held all three women up for the chain-whipping.
	Robeson adjusts the chains so that the line Julie is hung from is connected by a pulley to Karyn’s line.  If Julie moves backward, away from Karyn she will
lift the unfortunate redhead scarecrow one-eyed slut off her feet and the spear lodged in Karyn’s guts, which is attached to the o-ring on the floor, will immediately tear her insides out.
	This is explained to Julie slowly and quietly by Kessler as he looks into her
pain demented eyes.  He studies her beaten face as he tells her what will happen
if she moves back away from Karyn. He studies the way the barbed ball-gag he has pushed back into her mouth lodges in Julie’s pretty lips buckled tight around her neck keeping her jaw stretched wide.  He watches blood ooze from the wound left by the skewer through his slaughter-slut’s cheeks and he smiles specially when he tells her that an electrical charge will move through the sheet of tin.
	“As long as you take the juice,” he tells her, his fingers slowly tracing
the edges of her cut-away nipple, next to the spear hole in her left breast. “Karyn
here will stay alive.  It’s a trade off, cunt. Your suffering for her life.  The minute you step back to get away from the electricity you’ll lift her. Mmmm and when you do...the hooks will tear her guts right out of her. But that won’t be all...”
	Behind Julie, Robeson and Kirkwood have hung Darla Bessinger by her
broken legs, upside down over a deep bucket full of water. The deaf titless whore is moaning softly, her knees horribly swollen, her hands roped behind her, the rope knotted to a meathook pushed through both of her beaten pussy-lips.  She dangles off the main suspension line as well, from another pulley Riemann has rigged up following the plans he, Kessler and the others have made.
	“There’s one more thing, ” Kessler continues, still stroking Julie’s nipple-less titmeat. “When you move back you’ll let Darla down and her head will go right into that bucket. Yeah. That’s right. Ten to one she won’t be able to come up for air.”
	The men chuckle as they step back.
	Julie now understands her predicament.  The lives of both Karyn and Darla, two women she didn’t even know four days ago but who have shared captivity with her and who have come to this final crossroad with her, will now depend on Julie’s ability to take the electrical fire on the sheet of tin beneath her busted bloody toes. Any attempt by Julie to escape the torture will result in the ensuing death of both chain-suspended slaughterwhores.
	Again she has been made responsible.
	And again she knows she will fail.
	There is no other way.
	“ -yyghhh - agg - ?” she grunts meaninglessly.
	“Is there something you want?” Riemann asks her.
	She turns to look into his hooded face then her eyes drop submissively and she shakes her spike-ball-gagged head slowly.
	“I didn’t think so,” he said cynically. Then sharply he asks:
	“Ready?”
	After a brief moment she nods.
	Riemann’s hand moves to the voltage regulator dial.
	The other men watch, Kessler and Robeson leaning against the wall across the room, Kirkwood standing near Darla, all of the killers slowly stroking 
themselves as the first hot burst singes Julie’s foot and she almost jumps off
the steel plate.
	“Gghhrrhgggg!” she grunts fiercely trying to stay put as the shock
travels up and down her body.
	There is nothing to hope for and nothing to pray for.
	Only to endure as long as she can.
	Riemann smiles and turns the knob.
	Endure to prolong the pleasure of her killers.
	More electricity buzzes into the tin sheet.
	“Augghhh!” Julie cries responsively.
	Her broken toes curl and she twists from side to side trying not to move from her position.
	Behind her Darla gasps staring down into the bucket below her.
	Karyn’s head tips backward and her eyes flutter.
	“Give ‘er more,” Kessler snarls.
	Julie shuts her eyes tightly and Riemann’s hand moves on the regulator dial.
	“Uyyhh! Uyyhh! Eyhhghh!” Julie exclaims.
	Her suffering is breathtakingly beautiful.
	She goes up as far as she can to minimize the contact with the metal, her toe-bones cracking painfully, her ankle twisted and mangled, the up-bound leg 
tensing.  As long as she does not pull back Karyn will not rise from the spear and Darla will not drop into the water but Julie knows she will not be able to stay in one place.
	She knows it for sure when Riemann gives her more.
	“Aaowwhhhhh!” she groans, her body stretching upward, arching.
	This is the worst pain she’s been forced to take since the studded plank out by Talon lake.  She tries to tell herself she’s survived that and that she
will survive this if she can hold on.  If she can just hold on.  She also knows that the longer this torture continues the more the killers will be pleased and that
gives her a deeper incentive - to stay allive for them - to give them the hard
cruel pleasure they crave - all of them - those men watching the tape too -
all of them. She stands there on one punished leg and takes it for them. Stands there and groans and now begins to give out short shrieking cries as Riemann ups the ante rolling the dial to a higher voltage.
	“Fuck!” Kessler grunts.
	Julie’s torment is apocryphal.   For the four whore-killers this is nirvana.
	“Let’s make it harder for her,” Robeson whispers.
	“Hell, lets make it harder for all of them.”
	Robeson passes the weapons out.  
	Medieval maces, steel balls studded with one inch spikes dangling from chains.  
	The gladiators used such weapons against their adversaries in the ancient Colisseum arena.
	Now three helpless already severely mangled females are going to take the primitive punishment and their undeserved suffering will feed the perversely destructive-assertive urges of a vast and secretive pornographic male audience for years to come.
	This audience will be far greater, more private but more global and more sophisticated than those who sat centuries ago in the stony seats of Rome’s theater of death - but it will be an audience just as thrilled and obsessed by the age-old blood-thirsty urges...
	...those than can never be fully satiated.

				____________________

	Exquisite suffering.
	Exquisitely mind-blowing, destructive, mind-wasting, whore-killing, slut-pounding agony as Kessler, Robeson and Kirkwood whip the heavy steel balls into the three slaughterwhores.
	Electrical bursts flow up Julie’s leg, snap through her, make her twitch
and stretch and shake her head and drool blood and spit from the edges of her gagged lips and out her nostrils.
	Hard thumping steel spikes sink into whoremeat.
	Hard and piercing across Karyn’s caved in chest and blood-dribbling nipples, across Darla, hanging inverted, across her soft bellymeat and thighs and chunky beaten pussy, one severe swat of spiked ball across one hip, fracturing it, 
making her shit and piss blood, making her howl, the sound echoing in the
water bucket just below her head, blood dripping down her chest into her crazed grimacing face.  Hard smacking metal pounding into Julie’s broken ribcage and what’s left of her nipple-less boobmeat.
	Riemann turning the voltage dial higher as the three men mace-whip Julie’s thighs and legs almost knocking her off the steel plate, knocking her back, Karyn
and Darla jolted in their suspension and sobbing as Julie screams but hangs on
hangs on and hangs on as the men mace-whip her again across her belly and chest.
	“Fuckin’ beautiful!” Kirkwood shouts.
	That’s how they all feel about it, the killers, those who will see the video: Fucking beautiful, as the hard steel spikes sink and thud into the slaughterwhore Julie from every direction, snapping her up-bound leg in two, ripping her broken
foot to pieces, gashing her shoulder and crushing her ribs.
	Sparks shoot off the surface of the tin plate around Julie’s broken toes as now finally she starts to edge back, screaming, and Karyn starts to rise, the pulleys squeaking and grinding above the men, the spiked balls flying, thudding,
thudding.
	The men now aim their slashing ferocity upon Darla, upside down hung blonde bimbo whoremeat, titless, beaten, deaf, useless piece of shit whore dangling, her blonde hair already in the water bucket, her eyes wide with horror as the metal spiked balls teach her new lessons in pain, piercing right into her
beaten guts, piercing liver, bladder, stomach, kidneys, ripping her all up inside.
No more cheerful hikes through the expensive stores in the malls for this
slutpig’s legs now broken, pierced and slammed again and twisting.  No more
looking through Cosmopolitan magazine or Vogue as she slides down further,
Julie forced backward by the crackling voltage steaming up her leg.  No more
Daddy’s expensive gifts or mom’s cake on Thanksgiving, no more husband-searching, no more diamond rings, no more skiing in Colorado. This pig is going down, her forehead in the cold water, her mouth screaming, the men pounding into her flesh with the mace-whips. 
	And Karyn groaning, looking up at the ceiling, already near death, her
broken feet coming up off the ground as Julie moves back and Riemann turns the dial higher. Karyn watching one-eyed as the men leave Darla and come for her, mace balls dangling, Kessler smiling as he swings, Robeson grinning, Kirkwood sneering. Whummppp! All three steel balls spiked into Karyn Waters so hard they have to rip them back out of her belly and bits of gut and pinkish shit drool from the gashes and she makes odd choking sounds as her rib bones poke out her lungs and she rises and rises and the harpoon hooks inside her tear her up, rip her uterus in half, gash a chunk out of her liver and she continues to rise almost off the spear blood pulsing hotly out of her and she pukes guts and blood and her groaning’s almost over and she sees her grandfather on a green hill far away waving dear God she’s dying now dying knowing nothing at the end but the savage hatred of these strangers and - whhummppp! her collar bones snapped, her shoulders dislocated and she rises higher pissing her guts out, shitting intestines like chocolate goo spattering the floor as the spear gouges out of her and she is way up and still rising and Julie is looking up at her.
	Karyn’s mother will keep a picture of her on the piano
	For many years she and Karyn’s father will wonder if their daughter will ever return, never knowing about her brutal suspended death in the killing room of the Vanner warehouse, never knowing of their sweet redheaded female child’s long screaming slaughter which will provide so many strangers with hours of visually cathartic sexual enjoyment. 
	Darla is drowning in the bucket behind Julie, broken legs kicking, gurgling and bubbling in the water, and Julie’s finally off the tin plate sobbing as the men come for her with their swinging mace whips. Her eyes beg to die as the metal balls smash wickedly into her cunt-mound, into her thighs and belly.  She vomits blood and twists from side to side under another attack of swiping metal and then the killers stop to watch and she jerks around bleeding and bobbing on the suspension line.
	Karyn gives out a last rattling breath and goes limp.
	Darla’s legs stop kicking, the bucket overflowing on the floor.
	Leaving Julie to hang by her wrists the men cut down the dead slaughter whores.
	Julie watches them fuck the broken dead bodies, all four men taking turns.
	Julie watches Riemann take an axe and dismember the women while the men watch snickering and making jokes.
	Julie sees Riemann come for her and press the bloody edge of the axe right up into her twat.
	“Fuck this,” he commands.
	She does so pushing herself weakly down on the slicing metal that has cut Karyn and Darla apart, broken bitch crying softly, her lip-less pussy being split wide, the hard axe edge grinding against her  swollen clit.
	“Yeghhhhhaag - ah - ah - ahhhgghhh -” she moans.
	The killers, surrounded by the gory strewn-about pieces of their kill, watch her fuck herself on the axe grinding, kicking, groaning, sobbing, until her clitoris is slowly sliced off.
	Rieman bends down to pick the nub of flesh from the bloody floor. He tilts his head back and tosses Julie’s clit down his throat as the men cheer.
	Then he takes the axe away leaving her to grind and twist in mid air.
	Kessler watches her remembering how she reacted in a similar way to his first whipping.
	Robeson reaches up and takes the spiked gag from her bloody mouth.
	She looks from one killer to the other all around her, spinning slowly as she hangs broken and bleeding, shattered, finished.
	“Kill me - kill me - kill me - kill me -”
	“Let’s take her outside,” Kessler says.
	They let her down, she slides into Kirkwood’s arms, cradled there effortlessly, hot and bloody against his strong chest.
	As she looks back into the killing room just before Kirkwood moves out through the doorway and up the stairs she sees Riemann picking up an object
that leans against the wall.
	It’s a thick heavy lead pipe.

				____________________

	Out behind the Vanner warehouse beyond the graves is a chain-link fence.
	Beyond it, there are more woods, rustling forest moonlit, a cold breeze moving in the clear September air as Julie is carried into the night.
	The men are silent, focused, purposeful.
	Their eyes are unreadable, inhuman.
	They no longer wear the hoods and they are like otherworldly creatures, naked forms ghostly in the luminous moonlight.  Handsome and all-powerful.
	This last thing will not be on the video-tape.  It will be personal and intimate.
	Kirkwood carries the broken woman, Robeson and Kessler walk on either side of him.
	Behind them Riemann follows, the heavy pipe dragging along the ground.
	Julie’s mind is on the edge of extinction but she no longer sees the dead females or hears their anguished whispers as she had hoped to.
	The night smells sweet and fertile.
	Now she sees the fence and knows.
	“ - yess -” she groans. “ - yes - oh -God - yes -”
	The men hold her broken aching body against the chain links, off the ground, raise her arms wide in a crucified position and wrap the strands of barbed wire tightly around her broken wrists and elbows and through the thatched gaps in the fence. She bleeds moaning softly.  Her shattered legs are raised pulled apart obscenely and tilted back, ankles secured to the fence so that she’s suspended  and ready for action, like the whore she is.
	Silently, each man takes his turn with her, plugs her up with his hard
manmeat, up her burned out ass, up her burned out pussy, back and forth, plunging in and out fervently, making the fence rattle.
	Like Larissa, she thinks, her body trying to accomodate each of her attackers, yielding and adapting to each man’s forceful rape, doing all she can
to give of herself, to satisfy them. Like Larissa - dying gangbanged gouge-fucked on the fence -
	She knows this has been Riemann’s idea and she appreciates its perverse and symbolic justice.
	The men take all they can greedily and uncaringly. Masterfully. Silently.
	They own her completely now.
	Her life is theirs.
	This is exactly - exactly - what they want and what she deserves.
	Her blood is theirs.
	Her soul.
	It has come to this.
	Each man spends himself in her and leaves his hot scum-seed deep inside her.
	She quivers and her broken fingers move above her head.
	Her burned bloody mutilated cunt drips silvery streams of jissom.
	When Riemann takes his turn he is equally savage, equally brutal with her.
	The others watch him pound his long white shaft into her where they have already been.  It pistons in and out, gleaming with dark gut-blood and pearly jism in the moonlight.
	She looks up into his expressionless sneering face.
	“Thank you -” she whispers. “Thank you - ughh - th-thank you -”
	He says nothing for a moment then:
	“Give me your tongue.”
	His hand reaches up.
	Julie opens her mouth, his fingers take her tongue.
	She understands what he wants, opens her mouth wide, leans her head forward her brows arched.
	He begins to pull on it, gripping it by the metal stud still embedded there.
	“Give it to me, whore - Its mine -”
	“ -ygghh -gghh - ghhh -”
	“Press your head back against the fence.”
	He’s grimacing, his fingers like a steel vise on her tongue now.
	“Pull back - yes - that’s good -”
	Her tongue starts to tear, she can feel it ripping down at the base, at the top of her throat.
	The others lean closer to watch as Riemann now yanks Julie’s tongue slowly out of her mouth, the slaughterwhore leaning her head back to help him with the grisly mutilation, drooling and choking.
	With a final convulsive pull the killer tears his victim’s tongue from her and tosses it to the ground then his hands seize her neck and he begins choking her as he pounds her against the rattling fence fucking her asshole, hilting himself in his broken sobbing bitch.  He uses her to build himself to orgasm, his hips thrusting powerfully into her. He fucks her like the piece of meat she has become, dominantly, unjustly, unswervingly until he comes to the edge of orgasm. He slides out of her ass and then pushes deep into her burned out cunthole slamfucking her.
With a smile of conquering pleasure he pushes his thumbs hard into her eyesockets popping out her eyeballs as he shoots his load deep into her shattered guts gripping her head by the hair to stuff his pumping cockmeat into her, she whimpering and yielding to him as his spunk bubbles up out of her, blood and sperm leaking from her battered, burned, slashed, devastated pussymeat.
	Then he steps back and lifts the metal pipe off the ground.
	She hears it, no longer able to see, and all she has time to think is - now - and all she manages to do in her final darkness is make a soft gasping grunt as the killer slams the weapon right into her waiting clit-less cunt.
	Its cold and hard and heavy, just as she imagined it would be, just as he had described it to her long ago at Harris State prison. But it is also more, inexplicably more, impossibly more, as he pushes it forward into her and she
feels it tearing her all up inside, rising through her.
	Her face is suddenly transfixed, suddenly radiant, certainly not beautiful because it is beaten, eyeless and disfigured but smiling beatifically up at the distant moon.
	There are no questions anymore or doubts.  The world is complete.
	This is the end of Camille road and there will be no more walking.
	This is the what she’s been waiting for her whole wasted life.
	The killing pain - the cold cunt-breaking fuck of the killing rod.
	Her broken legs twitch.
	She is full.
	A glop of bloody faeces and pieces of intestines stream from her
asshole.  Yellowish blood spurts from her mouth and Riemann pushes the pipe
all the way through her guts, out her back, through a gap in the fence, just like
when he did Larissa.
	Then, circling her as she dies, the men lift their cocks and she feels the hot urine spray from them in the faint moonglow.
	Their piss is hot on her and her heart suddenly begins to spasm and 
ache.
	“Ughh - Ughhhhh!” she grunts wide eyed.
	She shivers orgasming, a deep uterine convulsion that comes from the core of her gouged-out womb.
	They laugh and piss on her face and in her gaping mouth.
	For a horrible moment she is full of longing for life.
	It is an injustice to die this way, blind, imagining their leering faces.
	She is nothing more to them than a urinal.
	For this she has given everything? For this she has lost her home, her family and her life?
	Then a rattling seizure contorts her and she can no longer breathe.
	Her muscles contract and shudder and her head rolls back while the men are still pissing and laughing.
	They step up close to piss into her eyeholes, piss into her skull.
	“Whore.”
	She hears the men’s words as her consciousness ebbs into silence.
	“Slut.”
	“Pig.”
	“Piece ‘a shit.”
	“Uhhh - Nice fuckin’ kill.”
	“Great work.”
	“Jesus - what a stinkin’ mess -”
	Then its over and they untie the barbed wire and take her off the fence and drag her back toward the warehouse, drag her on the ground by one foot, her face in the dirt and dead leaves.
	She’s left lying near the grave. Alone.
	Still she feels the cold nightbreeze blowing.
	She hears the sound of a jet way up above in the sky.
	The hiss of a car’s tires on the road beyond the warehouse.
	She hears the men return.
	There’s no breath in her broken collapsed lungs.
	The lead pipe is a shaft of ice through her middle.
	Human words no longer hold meaning but she knows that they are bringing the remains of the women in the killing room out to the grave. She knows because she is drifting over them, above them, able to see again, watching them. She is part of the wind now, part of the sky and the promise of rain.
	Mara Lane, Darla Bessinger, Karyn Waters, little Ann Rowen. Broken, dismembered, defeated slaughterwhores.
	She looks around to see if these females float with her but she is alone. A drifting shadow above the tree tops.
	She sees the men drag the slaughtermeat to the edge of the pit and push the pieces into the cold dark ground. They are laughing.
	The mutilated bodies are just trash to be rid of now.
	Julie is glad she has satisfied the killers, pleased them.
	She is sorry she has not provided as bountiful a feast for them as Karyn and Darla. She knows the young women will have provided feeding meat for the four men to enjoy, at least for a few days.
	And finally she sees her own twisted mangled remains puddled in piss, kicked into the grave, the killing rod still shoved through her.
	She sees the men begin to shovel the dirt into the hole.
	It spatters her eyeless face.
	Soon it will be sunrise.
	There’s nothing left for her but to turn to the east.
	When the sun begins to light the sky she will lose herself in its
glaring blaze.

				____________________

WOODBURN