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Updated: Nov 16, 2020

For a time in my youth, I wasn’t a terribly good student. I was plenty smart and I remembered most of what I saw and heard, but much of the time I couldn’t be bothered. I didn’t always pay attention, as my mind was usually occupied with other, more destructive (and thus enjoyable) considerations. Plus, when your mother is a whore and your stepfather a gang-banger, there’s probably no one holding you terribly accountable or helping with homework. I didn’t act out much—I knew better than to incite those consequences—but for several years, I did only just enough to get by while not drawing any unnecessary attention to myself. Simply, I didn’t care.

Until I did.

In middle school, I discovered there were some things worth learning. Biology in particular was exquisite fun. I was able to apply some of what I learned to my newfound animal diversions. (In case you are curious, live dissections are much more interesting and educational.) The appeal of science helped to inspire my participation and improved my overall grades by a full letter or more.

I had no ambitions to further my education until just prior to my junior year in high school. Everything came crystal clear to me then, all in one fortuitous moment. Suddenly I had a purpose—an objective. And in order to obtain it, college became a necessary modification to my plans. And really, that wasn’t so bad—by that time I knew that human anatomy, physiology and psychology were classes I would thoroughly enjoy and (of course) utilize in my future endeavors. But funding that undertaking would require considerably more than I could count on my mother for—which was precisely zero. I would need scholarships and student loans that I would never pay back. I took on a part time job. I’m not sure my mother even noticed.

College was an entertaining experience. I stayed for two years. In that time, I learned a great deal about the human body and mind. And in the time since, I’ve learned much, much more. Nothing can take the place of real-world experience. Nothing. If you wish to know how a heart works, crack and spread the ribs, tear open the pericardium and watch it beat. If you wish to know how much agony a brain can endure before shutting down, inflict it. The answers you’ll find in a book are rarely adequate replacements for audience participation.

Though I would not encourage most psychopaths to join the military that is exactly what I did after my brief dalliance with college. Many despised basic training, but it never bothered me. I grew stronger, faster, and sharper. I learned how to utilize a wide variety of weapons. In essence, I was being paid to learn how to kill. And as we well know, I am exceptional at that.

Given my knowledge of anatomy and physiology, becoming a medic was really a no-brainer. I served as part of the 113th Brigade Support Division in Afghanistan for a brief period in 2005. I can tell you now that I didn’t save all the soldiers I could have, preferring instead to watch them die suffering in front of me. That was not what led to my discharge, however. A family suspected of sheltering Taliban militants turned up mangled and mutilated when the 76th raided their cave. Someone (since deceased in a similar fashion) alerted our commanding officers that I’d slipped away for a time in the night preceding, and blood may or may not have been found on my belongings. No one was terribly keen to investigate thoroughly or to implicate the Army National Guard in the murders, nor were they prepared to discipline someone (me) for “taking care of their light work." Ultimately, the story was floated that the Taliban had butchered the family to keep them from sharing intel with the encroaching US troops. It was used as a bit of rather ingenious propaganda to dissuade the Afghanis from supporting the Taliban “barbarians”. In it’s way, my little evening escapade actually helped us win support critical to our success in the Middle East. Therefore my discharge was quiet (and laughably honorable) and I was soon sent home.

Which was all just as well. I never intended to stay in the military for long in any case, and its purpose had been served. I’d learned some necessary and enjoyable skills to pair with my education. The rest of my training has all been quite…hands-on. As I’ve said, there is no substitute for experimentation and experience. And of that, there have been unfathomable riches since.

We’ve not yet even scratched the surface…

The Wall weighs more than 300 pounds. It is a construct of forty-two pine 2x4s, each six feet in length. As such, it is roughly square, and a smidge smaller than your standard king-size bed. It required a somewhat herculean feat of engineering to position it and fasten it securely to the drywall and studs beneath, but I managed. And it was quite worth it—as far as easels go, it really has no equal.

Above the Wall, secured into ceiling joists are two galvanized steel, half-inch eyebolts, precisely eight feet apart. There is a similar set up on the floor, but here the eyebolts are anchored directly into the concrete. Threaded through the bolts are lengths of chain, each culminating in a screw link with a pair of handcuffs dangling from their own chain. This allows the cuffs to be doubled around wrist and ankle. A person of virtually any size or weight can thus easily be suspended—or stretched—against the Wall indefinitely—or until their hands are torn from their arms. And in case you are wondering, the answer is yes; it tends to be a messy endeavor.

Generally speaking, I have little need of souvenirs. My impeccable memory renders them a trivial and unnecessary luxury that could someday too easily connect me to my crimes. But Natalie was so splendid—such ripe perfection suspended against the smooth pine surface. If I wasn’t to keep her, then perhaps something a bit more… tangible was in order. After all, profound beauty is all but owed some form of enduring commemoration, wouldn’t you agree? I positioned and secured a blanket of finely woven linen canvas to the Wall beneath the full breadth and length of her glorious body.

For some time, the tremendous weight of Natalie’s eyelids moored her to the dark waters of unconsciousness, even dangling from her chains as she was. I traced a finger lightly along her smooth, bare skin to entertain myself until she came around enough to begin to evaluate her predicament. Groggy, she pulled against the cuffs and chains that held her in place. They jangled like music—a soundtrack of sorts to the next phase of our relationship.

She was understandably confused and winced against the pain of hanging in such a manner. “Hurts,” she said. “Help.”

I guided her feet to a small stool so that she could take some of the pressure from her splayed arms. Once her heels were upon it and bearing most of her weight, she was able to draw several long, deep breaths. For a brief moment, I was transfixed by the rise and fall of her impossibly perfect breasts. Then I drew taut some of the links of the chains secured to her ankles. I was not about to underestimate a well-placed kick.

The increase in oxygen helped to bring her around a bit more.

“Hello lovely,” I said.

Her blinks were slow and deliberate. Tears slipped down her flushed cheeks. She gave me a look awash with fury, but there was not even a hint of fear in her eyes. She pulled at the chains binding her arms to test their strength. When she realized that was futile, she attempted every possible contrivance that she could come up with. Seduction was her principal tactic. She offered her body to me again. Tempting as it was, I’d already reveled in that experience and I would soon enjoy her body in an entirely different—though no less enjoyable—way.

She said she would leave her husband and stay with me permanently. Given her sociopathic nature, I suspected she’d be very suited to my particular vocation, and might well take immense pleasure in it. Unfortunately, one’s sincerity can hardly be trusted when chained to a wooden wall in someone’s basement. But I did so enjoy her plotting—and her silky, slightly hoarse voice provided a pleasurable lyric to the chorus and jingle of chains and metal.

I didn’t bother to disguise my disappointment when she tried to buy her way off the Wall. That was the least original, and most ineffective of all of her pleas. Though I suppose it must be for some, money has never been part of my primary motivation. Besides, I’d already checked, and there was at least a thousand dollars in her wallet, and the giant gleaming diamond on her finger would easily fetch several thousand more.

I drove the first nail through her left wrist. It’s mostly a superficial wound, intended more for mounting than anything else. The radius and ulna prevent much in the way of side-to side movement, and the metacarpals of the wrist bear the weight of the body nicely—just ask Jesus. The wound can also have the added benefit of damaging the nerves that control movement of the fingers, which makes subsequent stages on the Wall much easier.

Natalie surprised me by snarling in anger as the nail pierced her. If there was pain, it was masked by rage. She flexed her toned arms—pulling herself up off of the stool I’d so kindly provided—and tried to kick against the chains at me, to no avail. Still she pulled and struggled, the steel rings of the handcuffs digging into her divine skin.

When I pounded the second nail into her right wrist, she howled like a wounded animal and tossed her head from side to side and banged it into the Wall behind her. Blood coursed down the white canvas, tracing crimson gravitational lines parallel to her body. It, likewise, trickled along the inside of her arms and dripped off near the elbows. I gave her tight belly a soft kiss. She bucked and squirmed under my lips and roared. Her empty platitudes became emptier (and increasingly vulgar) threats­—she made it abundantly clear that our little honeymoon was over.

I made some adjustments to Natalie’s chains that left her tightly spread-eagled against the wall. Her breathing immediately became more labored and shallow. If I did things just right, and didn’t clip an artery along the way, she might have a few hours before she suffocated. In the meantime, we had art to create.

I began with her fingertips, one at a time. Here, two-inch common nails were more than adequate. Sometimes the nails would ricochet off of the distal phalanges before embedding in the Wall. Other times, I could feel the bones shatter through the handle of the hammer. I pounded several more through the metacarpals at the knuckle joints and a few more into the center of the hand. Then I moved down her body, dragging the galvanized tips of two eight-inch spikes along her smooth skin as I went.

These were destined for the tibiotalar joints in Natalie’s ankles—the point where the tibia meets the talus bone of the foot. After a wealth of experimentation, I’ve found few things more exquisitely painful than the ravaging of a joint. By her screams for a God I’m quite sure she didn’t believe in, I can only assume Natalie agreed.

I drove two twelve-inch spikes through the soft flesh of her hips. They pierced the ilia of her pelvic bones and sank several inches into the Wall. With those, I was reasonably certain that she would not be leaving our intimate arrangement without substantial assistance. I unclasped the cuffs from her feet and wrists, which left her suspended by a combination of fewer than thirty nails and spikes.

If she thought she’d been granted a reprieve, she was mistaken. She wasn’t going anywhere, but still she struggled and raged. I was reminded of our sweaty fuck from just a few hours prior as tears dripped from her chin and fell onto her breasts. I licked one from a pink nipple, relishing the taste of her anguish and wrath on my tongue. The hatred in her eyes bordered on maniacal or perhaps feral. On the Wall, Natalie had become more animal than human. I watched with interest as she strained and pulled against the nails pinning her to the 2x4’s, grimacing, grunting and screaming through an agony of broken bones, punctured flesh, and ruined joints. Fresh blood began to pour from her wounds as nail heads tore through tissue. I must admit, I was impressed by her determination.

“I think not, my darling,” I told her, and retrieved a ten-inch spike from my cart. I impaled her right shoulder with it, angled inward toward her spine. Her shriek was one of purest suffering as the spike shattered her acromion, obliterated her rotator cuff and punctured her scapula before embedding into the pine. Her upper body weight put additional stress on the devastated joint, and all of the fight went out of beautiful Natalie. Her screams, deafening at first, degraded into moans and whimpers. Blood streamed down her chest and fell to the floor from her nipples with perceptible plops.

Natalie’s breathing was now very rapid. She couldn’t find any leverage to raise herself to exhale adequately, and any attempt to pull herself up by her left arm would be met with excruciating pain from her opposite shoulder. Her head hung down, bobbing with silent sobs. She could no longer find the air to scream.

After the best part of the following hour, both Natalie and the canvas were painted with long, thin strokes of red. The spaces beneath her outstretched arms looked rather like bright, crimson wings. Blood oozed between her legs, and dripped from her painted and manicured toenails.

She never asked me why. The empty darkness inside of her understood. She never begged me to stop, or to finish it. She knew there would be no reprieve.

Our time was drawing to an end. I lifted her chin and kissed the corner of her exquisite mouth. Then I pounded a spike through the back of her throat. She began to retch and gag against the metal and could no longer exhale. I watched her until she started to fade.

“Farewell, my sweet,” I whispered. She focused on me for the briefest of seconds. Her mouth moved in a silent goodbye. Then I plunged the longest of my spikes through her eyeball. By hand.

I shuddered and sighed as she departed for the Else.

Perfect Natalie now hangs over the fireplace mantle—“Magnificum in Suspensio,”—even more lovely than in life.

Updated: Nov 16, 2020

Contrary to that which you may have come to believe about me thus far, I am neither blind nor immune to physical beauty. I have desires like anyone, though mine admittedly tend to necessitate the spilling of liberal amounts of blood and pain. But Natalie was among the loveliest women I’ve ever seen. Blonde hair spilled in waves over dancer’s shoulders. She had large eyes the turquoise of a Caribbean sea. Her body was glorious—taut, toned, and lithe. Her breasts were perfect—as spectacular as any that could be manufactured, but (and I happen to know) exquisitely real. She was as near to flawless as I’ve ever encountered. And I wanted her from the first moment I saw her.

Natalie was also a magnificent sociopath. Married to a moderately notorious and well-paid attorney, she never wanted for anything material. Nor physical, as I soon learned while stalking her. Her (very) personal trainer, her masseur, and a girlfriend she met often for a cinnamon scone and a soy mocha latte with caramel drizzle kept her plenty occupied in the bedroom. She had very few discernable patterns that I could exploit, seeming to act on every whim, and at any moment. She was a rare prize, and one that required a rather direct approach to obtain.

One of the things that horrible, beautiful Natalie could be counted on to do most days was run her dog along a convenient wooded path. I took to jogging in the opposite direction, so that we’d pass each other along the way. At first, I just gave her a rakish smile and a polite nod as we converged. Did I mention I was shirtless? Natalie was more than a bit obvious about her appreciation—ravenous would not be too strong a word to describe her stare. Subtlety was not a tool in her belt. I waited a few days to build her anticipation, then met up with her again at a different point in her jog. This time, I slowed as we approached one another, as did she. Her eyes flowed over my body like water. I feigned an interest in her dog, bending down to pet him. The stupid beast reveled in my attention, with about as much intuition and sense as Natalie herself had. If he was meant to intimidate predators, he was useless.

I introduced myself and shook hands with her. After a pleasantry or two and a few shared lascivious glances that lingered a few seconds too long, I bade her a good evening and left her standing on the path. If I know anything, it is that anticipation can be an exceptionally intoxicating drug. I waited another full week to produce our next meeting in the cover of the woods. As the last time, we both slowed as we neared each other beneath a thick canopy of leaves struck through with beams of warm sunshine and the sounds of content nesting birds. I gave her idiot mutt a scratch under the chin and smiled at her—almost convincingly, I think. I handed her a small piece of paper with a phone number on it.

“No pressure, but give me a call sometime if you want.” She would call. I was sure of it. She managed to wait two days.

Our meeting was simple and clandestine. Neither of us wished to be seen with one another. I picked her up and took her to one of the very few places that I can call my own and where I can play entirely as I wish.

She wore a tight tennis outfit, and (I was fairly certain) nothing underneath. Her eyes were icy, but held the desire of a starving person gazing on a feast. We’d barely stepped inside when I pushed her ferociously up against the wall. I kissed her. She pulled me into her, pressing her body against mine, holding the back of my head as our tongues explored. The hardness of her nipples slid against my chest through our shirts, which were quickly removed and tossed carelessly on the floor. She was every bit as flawless as I had believed. Not a mole or freckle blemished her silken, evenly-bronzed skin.

Her left hand drifted down my chest and under the waistband of my jeans, her enormous diamond ring catching on the denim hem. She didn’t have to go very far. I was rock hard in anticipation of our time together, and her fingertips grazed me immediately. She growled appreciatively in the back of her throat through our continuing kiss.

I slipped a hand under her skirt and a finger inside of her in a single movement. She sucked in a breath and moved her hips, then shuddered—the first of many such to come. I didn’t even notice her unbuckling my jeans until they’d fallen from my waist, a denim pool around my ankles. She slid down the wall and took my cock into her mouth like she was starving. She was quite practiced—exceptional, in fact. I hardly had to call up any bloody memories at all before I spasmed against the back of her throat and she drank down everything I had to offer, which was substantial. I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, where we continued to consummate our newfound relationship without a single spoken word.

She was insatiable and incredibly powerful, wrapping her leg around mine and flipping me over so that she could control our pace and her pleasure. Her hands worked at her body every bit as much as her hips worked at mine. As she got close to orgasm, she emitted a low growl that grew in intensity and decibel until it ended in a small roar when she came. She was a sight to behold when she climaxed—her tight muscles trembling, her head thrown back in ecstasy, her veins prominent beneath the sheen of sweat that covered her skin. I could see her pulse in her throat, and feel it on my cock. She’d then lie atop me, squirming a bit, pressing her brilliant sweaty breasts against my chest. She’d kiss me feverishly for a moment, then force me to roll so that I was again on top and in control, while she’d move her hips expertly to whatever rhythm I chose. Then as she neared her next orgasm, she’d flip me yet again and take over.

This went on for nearly an hour until her internal spasms squeezed another forceful orgasm from me. She could feel it, and hummed as I released inside of her. She was breathless and trembling. A droplet of sweat hung from the bottom of her chin, trickled down her arched neck, onto a perfect breast, and then onto me. Her blond hair was wet and dark and clung to her face.

“Thanks,” she said casually, and climbed off of me. It was the first word either of us had spoken, with the exception of a handful of unintelligible exclamations we’d made as we fucked. She collapsed onto the tangle of soaked sheets beside me for a few minutes, catching her breath. I watched as her respiration returned to normal and the sweat evaporated from her unblemished skin. Her legs shook when she stood, and she laughed contentedly as she made her way to my master bathroom. She threw me a towel before closing herself inside, as if she’d lived in my house for years and this was something we did all the time. After a minute I heard the shower running.

Short of killing, Natalie was the closest I’ve ever come to real pleasure. I actually considered letting her go. I went to the kitchen for some ice water, and left a glass for her on the sink in the bathroom, taking a minute to admire her shape through the translucent shower curtain.

I really did consider it. Briefly.

When she came to, she was on the Wall.

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