A Van Full of...

 

This is - gasp - a pencil sketch.I did it for someone, as a preview for a possible "commission".

The ladies should be... the female cast of Farscape, but I do not think that they would all be into this kind of role-play. 

I think that the van is, really, a 3rd series Ford Transit, while it should have been the armoured car of Section 9, from Ghost in The Shell.

 I should do more stuff with traditional media...

NCS- Non Consensual Story, part 5

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not desired by the author.

---

Fifth part of NCS - Non Consensual Story , after parts 2 , 3  and 4. 


Now our "genius" has come by another victim, that he abducted a bit more bluntly and, probably, leaving around quite a bit of clues that any competent detective would be able to follow.

However, this is a story on the part of the evil guy.... kind of... so, he will escape the swift punishment of the justice. 

Also, who are we ass-pulling? Someone disappearing in an European country, where people does not really move that much or all of a sudden, would maybe make some wave. Maybe.

In a country like the U.S.A., where everybody is always on the move?Dare I say that, unless someone saw the abduction, it is very improbable that the police would invest its very limited resources to solve a disappearance.    

Which is why, for this and serial killing, the USA are better (but less a good place than some African countries, if one is a friend of a local dictator).

---

Mary Anne awoke slowly, with still a tremendous tiredness over her - she had slept half a day, but the after effects of the almost excessive dose of sedative would take some more hours to fade off.

The first thing that she realized, she was naked, on a bed with no blankets - only  a mattress and a pillow, under her head.

Her cats were with her, or more precisely, over her, trying to get some reassurance from their owner. As most cats, they did not enjoy the change of scenery.  They wanted their home almost as much as Mary Anne.

There were leather cuffs to her wrists and ankles, with iron attachment rings, and an odd, rigid collar at her neck. The cuffs had locks, and seemed very sturdy. However, it was clear that they were designed so that she could not use them as weapons.

A sheet of paper was on the low bedside table, on the right. She took it, and started to read,

<<
 I  communicate thee that, from now on, thou shall be known as Slave 2, or, shortened, S-2.

You will refer to me, your captor, as "Master" - with actual deference.

Every attempt on S-2's part to use her former human name, or to scorn or mock the Master, will result in harsh beatings, nipples burnt by means of cigarettes or a solder iron, kicks against S-2's groin- clitoris, skewering of S-2's tits with a roasting spike, enemas with acetic acid or near-boiling water etc.

Essentially, whatever painful and humiliating thing may cross the Master's mind in that moment.

S-2's first purpose, apart serving the Master sexually in any way He may require of her, up to and included withstanding the aforementioned ,sexualized tortures, is to care for and keep in an usable shape Slave 1, that will be introduced to S-2  and for whose well-and-bad-being S-2  will be held responsible.

To impede S-2 to misbehave, the Master took the liberty of placing a geographical limiter on S-2 body, in the form of an explosive collar.

If S-2 tries to open said collar, its explosive charge will tear S-2's neck apart.

If S-2 moves beyond the range of the keep-alive-transmitter placed at the centre of the house, the collar will explode.

If S-2 allows the collar's battery charge to go below a minimal level, the collar will explode.

In effect, there are a number of scenarios that would detonate the collar beyond its designed purpose, such as a complete loss of electricity, in the house, that went beyond the duration of the collar charge.

In the impossibility of recharging it, the collar will finally explode.

The Master does not know of any means to remove said collar, as He purposely ignored the need of such an action during its design.

As a result, S-2 is suggested to respect religiously the charging times of the collar, and never leave it below 50% charge - at the same time, overcharging will damage the battery, potentially setting the battery on fire and-or activating the low-charge explosive fail.safe.

Overrcharging the battery will hasten its demise and, opening the collar not being possible, shorten S-2's life expectancy.

However, not being really a specialist in IED or bomb disposal, The Master may be wrong and there may be ways to remove the collar, without killing S-2.

It is, therefore, in the best interests of S-2 to survive as long as possible, given the very high possibility that Law Enforcement Organizations may identify and arrest the Master, him not being an "Evil genius" but rather a pretty normal person.

I have no inherent reasons to harm S-2, and therefore it is possible for her to delay her demise until such a moment as an FBI incursion, or other LEO discovering the presence of prisoners in this compound.

S-2 survival and, consequently, chances of re-acquire her freedom, though, are contingent on level of help and dedication that she will provide in the handling of the Master's primary objective, the utter destruction of S-1, up to and including executing the small surgical procedures that the Master may decide to perform on S-1. Every such procedure that S-2 would refuse to perform, would  be performed by the Master on S-2 itself.

If S-2 does not intend to collaborate in the physical and mental breaking of S-1, she is hereby suggested to remove her collar, and die in the resulting explosion.

It would be a highly ethical decision, that would delay the fate of S-1 for the two weeks that would require the Master to locate a suitable substitute for S-2.

The video of S-2 death, and the vision of her corpse, will probably be very powerful incentives in convincing her successor, S-3, to behave accordingly to the Master's wishes.

My best regards,

your master, The Master

>>

Mary Anne Ossowiecki  re-read the delirious message thrice, but she could hardly believe it.
This kind of stuff happened only in TV, or the movies, not in real life.

She started petting her cats, who purred happy under her  hands, and tried to think at the situation.
How good was this guy? Could she force the stupid collar open? Would it really explode, as he wrote?
Was her abductor really a he? She tended to think so, that kind of arrogance was pretty male, in her experience.

Was the collar really that dangerous? She could not tell. Her fist impulse was to rip the damn thing away, then she saw the camera, on the other side of the room.

Was he making a video of her death, just in case? Really? To show it to his next prisoner, along with her body? In other words, her death was already contemplated, in his plans?

The thought chilled her soul  to its very core.

As always when he felt that his owner was down, the big Maine Coon came for her laps, asking to be petted - his mode of cheering her up.

She soon started sobbing, while gently stroking the cat's hairs.

The room was completely void, apart the bed and the plastic dishes with water and the cats' food.

There were no light switches and just a small hole, high on a wall, that was probably there for aeration.

She throwed out the pllow and the mattress, looking at the bed for anything she could use against her captor.

She discovered, with horror, that it was not really a bed.

At least, not like any she ever saw in her life.

There were no pieces screwed together, or sockets... it was a frame of soldered iron, with crossed hiron bars acting as the pillow support.

Everything was soldered, no moving pieces of any kind, and the bed itself was screwed to the floor, with one-inch thick bolts.

She doubted that A CAR would be strong enough to break anything out of that monstrosity.

If she could  break one of the bars away, it would be a nice weapon... breaking anything with her bare hands, though, was clearly out of question.

She really had no hope. Also, she had to recognize that, in that void space, she could not hide anything either.

Whatever she did, the camera - not, cameras, there was another one on the opposite corner of the room - would capture it. 

In this situation, she could hardly hope to take her captor by surprise, if the man was not a complete idiot.

Some hours after,  maybe six , maybe twelve, she heard someone trying to open her cell's door.

She readied Kitty, the most aggressive of her two cats, to use as a weapon - the poor animal could not understand what was happening, and became even more nervous.

The guy that entered the room was dressed for business... he had an helmet, with a Lexan transparent shield, a padded armour and a truncheon.

She realized that he cold beat her to a pulp, while little of what she could do would have any effect on him.

He looked  at her - he really didn't seem very terrible, gear apart.

He gave her first orders

"Turn around, join your wrists behind your back."

She launched the cat instead, that scratched uselessly the man's helmet, and she jumped forward. He hit her on the head with the truncheon, and she lose consciousness.

Josh  stopped trembling - he didn't expect that move with the cat. He didn't expect any resistance, really.

But this bitch was bigger and stronger than S-1, although not by much. She could have won over him - Josh had no great illusions on his physical strength.

Then, she would have run away, and died when he collar would have exploded, a hundred meters from home, three hundred meters before reaching the nearest road. 

The cats had been a tactical asset for her, he realized - he should have gotten rid of them from the beginning.

The scramble had been enough that the stupid animals had run away and, now, they were probably hidden somewhere in the underground bunker, if they did not go in the house, through the tunnel that connected the two units.

He checked S-2 - she was still alive, for now.

With a mild concussion, probably... she could still die, if he had procured her an internal haemorrhage.  The thought struck him - it would have been such a waste. He still would need a nurse, and he would have no video to show to the new one, to prove the effectiveness of the explosive collar.

She turned her on her side, and locked her wrists together on her back, with a padlock. Then, he decided a slight change of plan, and locked her ankles together, too.

He felt tired, now, so he laid down, waiting for his heart to slow its pace, and his vision to stop being blurry - he didn't expect to experience so much emotion, either.

In his mind, she would have recognized her situation as desperate and break down on her own, and she would be as pliable as... - something pliable - when he appeared.

He suddenly doubted that he had chosen well... but, then, none of the nurse he had scooped looked like being, really, any remissive.

Having to do - day by day - with people in overdose, dying, high on PCP, smashed limbs, stabbings etc. seemed to act as a much more powerful guts-hardener than sittingbat a desk writing failed-romance stories.

"As long as I do not give her any way to  kill me, I should be fine" - the thought, not very master-y, crossed his mind.

It meant
double check the number of any metallic implement he may be forced to hand her over, and every cord-like item.

Also,
adding some dead-man switch to the geometry of the situation, like - if he didn't enter a code every X hours, the transmitter that kept the collar from going off would shut down.

Yes... he should have thought that before.

First, check that she is not dead.

Second, when she is back on her feet, showing her the explosion of one of the collars ( he had built four of the things, in the end).

Knock her out, with anesthetics, this time.

Get his hand on some pieces and modify the stupid transmitter.

Only then, he could risk giving her a little more space, an even then, only as little as needed.

Maybe.


Josh lingered, for a while, on the thought of simply killing the two, burying the damn place and forget all of it.

But, he had already raked in two or three life sentences... so, it was late for that. He should try to enjoy the ride to its fullest.

He looked at his new captive,,, he did not realize that she had a nice ass, before.

He changed her position, unzipped his trousers, and started pounding the unconscious woman.

 Ah, this was far better...

The Last day of the 3/5 Darkhorse

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not desired by the author.

---

She met the first body some twelve hundred meters before the actual ground zero. It was a man, maybe - judging by what was left of the face.

The corpse was crudely, and messily cut along a sagittal plane. Some two hundred meters after, she found a big smear on a concrete wall, and she understood what had happened - the man hit the concrete with half the body, while projected at a high speed across the air.

The part that hit the concrete just disintegrated, while the rest continued - somewhat - its flight till resting where she found it. He was probably one of the lucky - hardly a second had passed from when he crossed the Avatar, and when he died.

Others - owing to the nature of "It", mostly women -  had probably died in slower and more painful ways.

Keysha heart shrunk at the thought that she could have avoided this massacre.

She wanted out, to be free of all the crap being inside "It" 's posse, but she hadn't realized that this meant that It itself could have to handle human opponents, and that "It" really hated soldiers, policemen, everything that resembled an authority.

She just found them inconvenient and she rather did not kill unless she felt it was extremely necessary, instead. All these deaths, all this horror was - not so indirectly - on her shoulders.

The 3rd Battalion 5th Marines had moved out of Camp Pendleton following its order, to try to subdue a dangerous menace to their country and its authorities. They died as heroes, each and every one of the 998 men and women in the unit.

They died as assassins, too - the kid that they were sent to kill never menaced anybody in her life, super-strong inhuman monster that she may have been.

They were also minced meat, from the very moment that they killed "Ice" and they were reached by the shortish, bulky, ugly looking full battle Avatar of Keisha's 'god'.

It was in the middle of the wreckage, once upon a time a town called Utica, now forever gone.

A last soldier, a woman with what looked like some ranks on what was left of her uniform's sleeve, was the object of its attentions. Obviously, every major joint of her limbs had been luxated, and she was tensed  by contorted rebar carved out of what were some of the town's library main pillars.

She was hardly conscious, but she dedicated what little energy she may had at damning the shortish monster. The avatar didn't care - the thing had absolutely no relationship with the human bodies that it emulated.

Its only purpose was to allow some interaction between actual humans and the "once-upon-a-time-I-was-a-man" entity called "it", "The Other", "Le Lofoque" and "Me, Myself" - by different subjects.

Its purpose was that, and carrying enough firepower to destroy every conventional army on the planet.

The avatar had its right hand on what should have been the woman's left breast- Keisha doubted there was any recognizable anatomical detail left, there - which it kept squeezing and twisting, while the  sergeant continued to shout curses at her assailant.

It stopped and raised its head, to look up to the sky.

"Oh, they are so dumb" - Keisha looked up, too, with all the visual acuity of her augmented eyes.

She didn't see anything, until a warning broadcast came in from the hyperlink in the back of her skull.
Then the new data got integrated by her cerebellum, and the image of a high speed W85 missile appeared, falling toward them at Mach 18.

The Avatar just smirked, raised its hand , and projected  five bursts of something that Keisha recognized as "Color" beams. Maybe.  The Avatar was a mismatch of old and new techs... every new trick that "It" tried, he used one of these almost-mindless drones as test beds.

The missile never had a chance to deliver its nuke - it was engulfed by  3 Tera-Watts of tractive kinetic energy, arranged in a rapidly moving grid... where any of it touched solid material, this was accelerated forward at 35000 gravities, while the rest was left behind. Keisha reckoned that it could tear HER apart with hardly any difficulty, as well as the occasional mountain.

The missile and its fission-fusion-fission  payload ceased to exist, along with everything in its line of sight for another thousand miles.

The Avatar continued to smirk, then it looked East... in the direction of Washington, D.C.

Keysha felt the stream of inner authorizations, negotiations, calculations.... below the surface of "It"'s consciousness.With horror, she realized that the old machine wasn't mindless... it hosted some very old, very nasty piece of "It" essence, from before the birth of "The Girls" like her. An aspect of her 'god' that did not accept the concept of forgiveness.

It had reached inside some of "It" most obscure corners, and activated parts of the massive AI that were sleeping since before she was even conceived.

Near the south border of the Mare Insularum, on the bright side of the moon, a ten metres wide port opened up, showing the end of a three hundred km linear accelerator.

A one meter long, 80 kg tungsten penetrator, with a chromatic-field hardened point and fine pointing rocket thrusters, got accelerated by a stored energy of about 6peta-Joules.

Final speed, nearly ten thousand km per second - a 1/30 of the speed of light.

Time to impact was 39 seconds, owing  to the small apparent deflection of the trajectory and the Moon being near its apogee.

The ricochet was too fast and small to be intercepted by Earth's primitive anti-missile protections. The computer in the back of Keisha's mind answered her silent petition, about the yield of the imminent explosion - 0.98 megatons... she was glad that she knew nobody in Washington.  

The avatar continued to slowly kill the woman-soldier in its hand; Keisha turned back, and flew away. Even if she had been inclined to save the American, she had no way to stop the Avatar.

Her body was mostly human, with some "black boxes" and various enhancements tossed in - she was no match for the four tonnes of metals and ceramic, compressed in a vaguely human shape,  that was killing the woman.

She looked around, till she found what she was looking for.

The body of the tall, blonde girl seemed even more frail than she remembered, the face of a Nordic Madonna shattered by what was, probably, a weapon designed to subdue one of the Betans.

Ice's face seemed as gentle, in death, as she always had been in life - the most hopeful, and optimistic of "It" "daughters", grown up in the deep of space learning, from books, over the potential for good of humans.

In the three years in which she had been The Ghost inside "It"'s heart, the monster had become more of a saint, trying to use its power to heal things and make the world better... instead than having just some lewd fun at the expense of some woman.

Which was probably the reason why the hidden levels of U.S. bureaucracy, those where the operative decisions are really taken, had finally identified her as en enemy, and sent these marines.

These poor, poor idiots, that managed to kill the little Princess that kept the real monster sedate.


The link to the belly of the beast, in the back of Keisha mind, roared with mind-numbing rage...

"IT" had absorbed much more than just its creator bad sexual tastes. It indulged in those, a lot, but there was also an incredible amount of rage against the world, perceived as a collection of small dictators hiding beyond apparent democratic rule, that needed oh-so-desperately to be killed.

On the near face of the Moon, more accelerator ports opened up - the schematics of each installation that awoke from a decades long slumber suddenly appearing in Keisha's mind.

Keisha embraced the albino girl that had drove her mad so many times, for her refusal to admit that this world's human race was beyond salvation, and cried softly.

The first lesson that "IT" had learned, a long time ago, still applied.  The one that drove it, well, mad.

A clone, a copy, a revenant, a mind upload... are individual selves, not a continuation of their "original".

Her friend had died and even if another Ice would soon be around, to plug the hole in their organization, that girl would have been someone else.

The same feeling was going to engulf millions, soon, as the destruction of Washington would reach every body that had family there. Billions would follow, if "IT" didn't calm down...  so, she reached through the link, and let all her sadness flow through. The things on the moon closed their ports, but didn't go back to sleep - the 'bots in the Asteroid Belt would probably keep watching the Moon with attention, now.

A light column raised through the sky, marking the spot where the Avatar had last stood - Keisha recognized the technology, fusion-fed plasma jets. Something crude, and disruptive of everything based on human biology, that had never been `placed in any of her sisters.

The avatar was old - like the linear cannons on the Moon, a relic of an age when "IT" had been ready, almost eager, even, to destroy the only world it knew, to protect itself.

Which could still happen.

Keisha had an awful lot of damage management to do, before retiring.

NCS- Non Consensual Story, part 4

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not desired by the author.

---

Fourth part of NCS - Non Consensual Story , after parts 2 and 3 . 

My douche-bag protagonist has come to some bothersome realizations, the lesser of which being that he cannot, really, tend to the very same injuries that he produces to his victim.

Probably he should ask himself why exactly wants those injuries to be mended to begin with... yes, we all have an idea about that, but the kludge is really clueless. 

---

It was since his ill-fated third term in college, that Josh did not touch anything electronic with a screwdriver and a solder iron.

He soon realised that he had forgot almost everything... his first try, he simply attached a small  detonator to the collar's TASER spurs.

He had bought some twenty detonators from a run-down demolition expert, along with a little C4. The explosive was fairly more than what he needed, but it was in line with his excuse for buying the stuff and so many detonators - carving a big boulder in the middle of the woods, near the complex.

He connected the detonator, switched off the base emitter, and nothing happened... the collar gave high voltage, low intensity pulses that could not fire the explosive device. He took a long look at the collar circuitry... and resigned himself. It was a single board full of SMD components, with a two level metallization - not something that he could really tackle.

He decided to go for a very low tech solution, and adding a  small external board to convert the original signal to one more useful, as well as adding a "near-discharge  explosion" capacity.

It took him more than a week, to assemble his first control collar. In the end, he saw that de detonator alone was more than enough to do the job, if left under the steel band that he used  as the external tamper-proof-y wall of his contraption.

He doubted that his masterpiece could really live up to a police bomb disposal unit, but he didn't need it  to be either. All it had to do was keep in check Kyla and some nurse with little to no technical tools or understanding.

He built in all four collars - one as a demonstration, one for his next prisoner, one for the almost inevitable next nurse, and one for Kyla, should the need arise..

He checked and re-checked that any of its work didn't explode on itself, and revised his aim from a surgical room nurse to a more accessible E.R. room nurse - after all, most of what he wanted to do to Kyla required only ER treatment.

Then, he purposely dislocated his left wrist, and got admitted to the E.R of St. James. He didn't find a suitable woman - the only female nurse in that turn was a 300 pounds Afro-American that looked like she could break him in two - so he had to get admitted to the one of Crawford University - there, a short redhead with a neurotic air caught his attention.

She was kind of cute, and she was small enough that overpowering her was not going to be difficult.

Only, he needed to stalk her without getting caught, which wasn't something he was sure to know how to do.

He took a pause, revised an online course for P.I.s, and went back.

In all this, his attention so distracted, he let Kyla almost alone for two weeks  - the black girl knew that something was afoot, and it scared her.

Because logic dictated that any change Josh may have to make to his plans could require the final disappearance of one Kyla Lawson, and starting over with a new victim.

The beatings and the humiliations were bad, but at least confirmed her that he was still engaged.

Indifference could be a prelude to a hidden grave, in the middle of the woods surrounding the farm.

It was at this part of her not exalting analysis, when Josh suddenly entered her cell, He was happy - why was he happy? - and hastily reached to her, reversed her small frame on the Iron bed and, as he had tried countless time before, he placed his cock on her anus and pushed.

As in virtually every previous attempt, he failed - Kyla could have explained to him that, even in the best consensual scenario, she really needed some dilatory preparation, to be able to accept a man's cock that way.

She knew at least that much, but she also knew that it would be humiliating for Josh, realizing that she was more sexually experienced than he.

Josh seemed to grasp pathetically to a hardly justified sense of superiority - he wasn't better than her as a writer, he clearly didn't know what he was doing and, in all honesty, "Leach" had been twice the man and thrice the lover.      

Josh tried another couple of times, before realising that he was going to manage it this time, so he rudely turned Kyla, again, and forced his cock in her almost toothless mouth.

With no incisors, canines  and pre-molars left, she could not try to cut off his stupid penis any more... all she could do was give him more pleasure, trying to byte his lump of flesh with her gums.

She knew it too well, so she tried to deny him his pleasure, by opening her mouth... he simply took her nipples in his hands, and squeezed as hard as he could... the shock made her close her mouth, and Josh continued to fuck her throat till he came. He then went to the wall locker, and took a bull-whip out of it...

It took more than a week, to Josh, to profile the redhead nurse. She lived alone with two cats, in a run-down detached house in what used to be a nice community, just outside town.

Her name was ... Josh had decided to avoid the" Kyla mistake".

Humanizing his victims, knowing their names or worse their lives , made it harder for him to be as mercilessly cruel as necessary.

Once she was in his hands, with the control collar on, the redhead would be Slave #2. Nothing more.

She was a reasonably prudent person, closed her door at night, with two locks.

A baseball broke one of her windows, while she was away working, and a nice chunk of fillet lead the biggest of her cats out of the house and into Josh's cage.

All he had to do was to wait, for the inevitable - the redhead placed a "missing cat" panel at the grocery store.

Josh called, met her, and took a copy of her keys, while she was feeding and comforting the poor animal.

Three days later, when she entered her home at the end of her turn, he was already inside it. It was hardly a struggle, while he waited for the 0.2 ml of Demotidine that he stuck in her neck to act.

He had calculated the quantity of the horse sedative to be fairly correct for a 50 kg animal, but the redhead was a little strong woman, so her heart not only didn't stop but she didn't even completely lose consciousness. He had another of Needle-less injection device and got the first ready, with another 0.2 ml of Demotidine - in his estimation it was enough to keep her "out" for the hour or so that he needed to reach the farm, avoiding the NTSC and police security cameras.

He placed her in the Suburban shotgun seat, opened the garage with the electric opener, and drove away in her car, the two cats caged in the back. He knew that no cat lover would leave behind his pets, which meant that he needed to get rid of them too, if he wanted the police to doubt that she had gone away on her own.

He placed the new prisoner in the room adjacent the cell of Kyla and immediately proceeded to lock her collar in place.

If she ever found a way to free herself and proceeded to go more than one hundred away from the three base transmitters that he had in the complex, the detonator would tore her neck's front to pieces, destroying carotid, trachea and a lot of other bits that helps humans to keep on living.

He considered again what to do with the cats - he loved cats, and chances were that these had one of those pesky identification chips.

Slave#2 could take care of them as well as of Kyl... - Slave#1.

He locked the two cats with their former owner, along with a small text in which he explained the redhead what exactly she had around her neck, the he  moved on to the pressing  matter of getting rid of the Suburban.

He had a long drive in front of him, to a certain scrapyard of his knowledge...

NCS - Non-Consensual Story, Part 3

This is a work of fiction. 

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. 

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and, frankly, undesired on the author's part.

---

Third part of NCS - Non-Consensual Story, coming in after the aptly named NCS - Non-Consensual Story, part 2. 

If I have to interpret the curve of visits to this blog before and after I realized that I had published the second part  and finished it -, as a reaction to the fact that the guy breaks down at the end, I'd say that a lot of my readers are really naughty. 

I suspected it but, there is really someone that gets off from non-consensual S&M fantasies with a cruel, over-`powerful sadist? 

Sheesh, I hope that they are all bottoms - which would explain why the good stories are, really, told from the sub side, leaving the "dom" as a hastily sketched, cruel force of nature. 

To be fair, that's - effectively - a nice description of yours truly...

---

Kyla had lost almost half of her teeth - Josh continued to beat her every time that she refused a command, but he wasn't so brutal as he hoped to be. She knew that he was growing frustrated - with himself.

His long-planned introduction to vengeance had left him with no vengeance at all... rather, with a gnarly, ugly pleasure; A pleasure slowly increasing, each time she offered him an excuse to punish her.

Kyla realized that she had  lost the tempo to submit - by being defiant, she had really broke him. But what she had broke was "Gentle Josh", the guy that discussed with her composition technique, though he hardly had any useful clue on it. What she had been left with was, Josh the maniac, that kidnapped her for, she suspected, pretty horrible motives.

The gentleness was disappearing from the new Josh... leaving a nasty piece of work that enjoyed torturing her.

Soon he would realize that he was enjoying giving her pain - not just doing it to get her to submit, but enjoying her pain on its own.

That was a scary, scary thought, because she knew all too well how the stories ended, when criminals discovered that they cared for the pain of the victim more than for the victim..

Yet, all hope was not lost, yet. As long as he had to tend to her wounds, after his tantrums, he was not going to forget that she was a person, a woman that used to be his friend, Kyla.

The two sides were fighting inside him, that was clear - as long as this was going on, she was not in immediate danger - beyond the cumulating damages.

Should she fold, and submit to his will?

At least apparently? 

If he was real, about this just being a test before doing the same to his ex-wife, if he really believed so... the moment she folded, she would stop being a useful test, and he would have to look for a new test subject.

At that point, keeping her alive, or gutting and burying her somewhere, would become just a matter of personal taste and convenience, for Josh.

Folding may spare her physical pain, but get her killed in a matter of days -  she still hoped that he had let some dangling thread, that someone could pick up what he was doing.

She wasn't ready to let go any hope or illusion - anything to keep herself alive, really.

Josh thoughts were remarkably similar to those of Kyla - "I am not going to break her, this way."

He knew it... his choice of tortures were more damaging that demeaning; if things kept going this way, she was going to die way before she had a chance to give in.

He could almost feel the ball of stubbornness forming inside the little black woman.

Worse, he could feel parts of himself respecting her for it.  

"She is a bitch, a slut, a whore."

"She is a girl in an impossible situation, trying to keep her soul intact  as long as possible."

He couldn't keep having non-torture contacts with her... allowing her access to a medical kit was dangerous, but he couldn't continue to mend her either. There was the chance that he concluded that all this was a farce, and let her go. He needed to make more distance between them, so he needed someone to mend her for him.

Was there a nurse in any of his "Male Rage" acquaintances?

Could he trust anybody of them, anybody at all? He knew the answer - "not really".

Not the moment that they were outside the complex... having information on something like his current extra-curricular activities is the kind of leverage, in discussing things with the police, that most "players" only dream about.

And that solved things... he needed to look in another place, as he needed a nurse, but not really an accomplice. 

He toyed with an idea that he had entertained for a while before, using one of those electric collars , the kind that zaps animals if they run away from a transmitter, to jerry-build some comtrol hardware.

He realized why he didn't try to build one, before. A malfunction would have killed Kyla, before she gave him what he wanted.

- His mind carefully tiptoed around the concept, just to avoid spelling out what he really wanted from Kyla... at a deeper level, he knew that any chance of ever getting it was gone, the very moment he drugged her.

But her nurse, was of no consequence - should he kill her, he could just kidnap another one.

Of course, another kidnapping was a bother but, this time, things were going to be easier...

This was no proof-of-concept, no anticipation of what he was going to do with his ex-wife.

There was no reason at all to have any kind of relationship with the nurse.  She just had to be a surgical nurse, possibly a tiny woman - for personal tastes and practical reasons.

Her disappearance was going to cause some more noise than Kyla's but, as she was going to have no direct connection to him, it didn't matter that much.

As he thought this, he realised that he would have never gone on with his ex-wife kidnapping.

There simply was no way that the police wouldn't check on him with a magnifying lens, given how bitter had been their divorce, and his history of near complete existential crisis afterwards.

Even the stupidest detective in the world would have done so, and he doubted that the policemen were any worse at their jobs than anybody else is at his own.

They didn't need to be geniuses... they simply had aggregated experiences, to draw on; A nice little check on his financials and they'd pick the factory, recognised its tell signs and check it with geo-radars and the like.

For all he knew, if anything ever happened to his wife, it was still going to happen, unless he had some iron-clad alibi.

Why the fuck did he start this crap, then?

The answer flashed through his mind, then He forgot it almost as fast as it had come.

His wife was only the last woman to hurt him, but they all had to pay. Al the bitches and sluts.

"But Kyla is not a slut, although she was a whore for a short while."

To silence the mutinous parts of his mind, he concentrated on the issue of planning the new abduction.

1. Choose his nurse
2. Check her routine
3. Find the place
4. Build the definitive collar...

He continued, for a while - focusing on a task helped him. Then, revised the list, and moved building the collar to the top.

That night, the door of Kyla's cell opened briefly as he deposited a stool near the chained woman.

In its middle, the stool had an enormous ... thing, so oversized that it was grotesque.

His order was simple "Sit on it" - his voice, still, calm, almost dead.

A voice that Kyla had never heard.

She didn't resist, this time. The man she knew as Josh was almost gone, so she carefully avoided giving it another push. She wasn't sure what could replace him, if she did.  

But it was not going to be nice.

NCS - Non-Consensual Story, Part 2

This is a work of fiction. 

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. 

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and, frankly, undesired on the author's part.

---

Second part of NCS - Non-Consensual Story


It is not a mystery that I do not exactly love Non-Consensual S/M stories, though I have a suspect that the problem is that the few that I read were written somewhat badly (worse than by me... I know, it's almost impossible), showed no interest in the psychology of the characters (beyond a "He was the master of the universe, and proud of being the master of the universe that he was" attached to the master... have I said that this was about the master? And such a master he was ) and hand-waved even the basic needs (secrecy, trusted accomplices, keeping things into budget) of the criminal factors in the story.

So, why am I here writing one? Because, lately, I remembered that I had left the old one on a little cliffhanger...

The oh-so-unfortunate female deuteragonist of our story had just been kidnapped by my pretty despicable protagonist. 

What is going to happen? 

Pages and pages of relentless sexual tortures on her, till she dies?

Alas, the few things that I wrote about Kyla are enough that I do not want her to die.

I do not want Josh to die, or to remain in prison for the rest of his life, either.

Neither do I want Kyla to fall in love with her torturer  - even though it is a staple of the BDSM genre in Hentai, the use of the Stockholm Syndrome (or, rather, women becoming addicted to extreme lewdness) seems to me - in this context - yet another example of bad writing.

Maybe it actually reflects true psychological mechanisms at work in real life prisoners, but it still seems crap to me.

Will I be able to mix things so that I get all that I want?

As I write these lines, I have not even the foggiest idea of if and how. 

We'll see...

---

Kyla woke up.

She was naked, chained to an old forged-iron bed, with no mattress or sheets, and just one little pillow and a thick blanket.

Even with it being  three centimetres thick, the blanket was not enough to completely even out the pressure of the net's chains on her skin. Had she been white, plenty of red lines would mark her body.

Drugged? Josh had drugged her? But - why?

He didn't look like one of those pervert... Hell, she had tried plenty of times to get him to look her THAT way! By now, she was sure the guy was even more gay than he was a lousy writer.

A man copying the style of Patricia Loughlear... almost as pathetic as the voice that was now coming from some hidden loudspeaker.

"Welcome, slave, to your last room. Here is where you'll spend the rest of your miserable life."

It used some distorter but, come on, it was Josh's voice - unmistakably. The fact that he pretended to be someone else suggested that he had no real accomplices... which was a bit scary. Accessories to crime have a tendency to flip on their bosses... the lone maniac had some more chances than the ones that hired helps.

Khttps://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7916738425800914293#editor/target=post;postID=5200943278606118177;onPublishedMenu=overview;onClosedMenu=overview;postNum=0;src=postnameyla listed in her mind all that she had read on serial criminals... defy or comply? Which strategy would keep Kyla alive longer and get Josh to make more mistakes? What did he expect from her kidnapping, what h needed? Why did he?

If all he wanted was some sex, he just had to ask... idiot. She really didn't care about that stuff.

"Come on, Josh! I recognized your voice! Let me go now, and we'll call this a practical joke and laugh about it tomorrow, with the rest of the boys" - to Hell with it...

The guy had clearly spent some time planning this, and had the resources in place to abduct and hide women - even if he let her go, he may still try again with some other poor girl. If she convinced him, her first call would be to the FBI.

He probably understood this - a part this.... thin  that he was doing, he was not really that dumb as not to get it.

The punishment for kidnapping - for this KIND of kidnapping, beyond the years of jail, there is also the probability of being killed by one pissed-off inmate, to take into account - are so harsh that it makes no sense freeing the kidnapped, ever.

Not when the chances of murder prosecution, in the absence of a body, are so abysmally low as in their state.

Had he made this kind of calculations? He didn't seem much into crime novels as Kyla - Pat Loughlear was her only romantic read, though some romance is hidden even in Edgar Wallace and Conan Doyle, if one squeeze the eyes hard enough -  but he had probably spent way more time then her, thinking about this moment.

Except that he really didn't, or couldn't do, anything more than having some vague notion of kidnapping her, imprisoning her and make her "pay" - for things that she didn't do at all.


Not only didn't she do anything to him, the lonely black girl could hardly do anything nasty to any other man... she simply had not enough nastiness in her, to really  be a bitch.

As she stood defiantly, he could feel the back of his mind itching, trying not to say to himself "She is right... this is stupid, and wrong".

This was a mistake -  a mistake that he already made. The only way left was to go on, follow the script till its dirty end, polish the weak points, and then use the revised plan with his horrible ex-wife.

"Slave, you are here to entertain us with your pain, your body and your terror. Your past life is over. You have no rights, nor freedom, nor food nor water but what we allow you to have, by our goodwill. Now, lower your head and put on the leather blind hood in front of you."

"Fuck Off, Josh. If you want to see me blindfolded, you may have at least the courage to do it yourself, ass-hole! I am not going to help you."

Josh stood aghast, in front of his 94" flat screen. The resolution of the concealed webcam was just too low, it made the bigger than life face of the Kyla on-screen somewhat surreal. He switched the signal to his laptop , noting for himself -  "when it will be Linda's time, I'll have to use a 4k camera... "

He didn't expect Kyla to resist -  her life had been a long series of humiliations, pains, and betrayal that she had to endure and had made her into a worthless person.

At least, so he thought... the fact that the tiny, slightly chubby black girl may see herself differently, had never crossed his mind, but she did. This didn't look like the near broken wreck that he found in her letters to her preferred romance provider.

This was Kyla as she had to go through life, always ready for the next fight.  He miscalculated.

Repeating the order was only going to highlight his ineffectiveness - she said it herself, he had to do it himself.

He took the hood that he prepared, and then let it go. She knew that he was the one behind this - there was no reason to hide. He left his "command post", and suddenly realized why did he create it n the first place - to remove himself from the action, to feel less what he was going to do. A coward way to look at the effects of his own actions.

He could not expect her to do his bidding for him - "he who draws blood, must soil himself" - the ancient reality of the men of action, before the weapons that strike at distance changed the nature of confrontation among humans.

He opened the door, and entered her cell.

Kyla looked at him, with a lot more hate than fear. She despised him, he knew.

He wen up to her, and they stood separated, looking at each other - Kyla asked only "Why?".

Josh knew that he could not answer... that any justification  he could come out was, really, pathetic, so he finally saw the truth.

"Because I Want" - then he slammed his fist in her face, at his full strength.

She fell on her own feet, already an incoherent mess, blood running from her broken lips, the eyes half-closed in her near-loss of consciousness, one of her incisors visibly loosened in its gum.

Hosh looked at her... he thought that he was going to feel powerful, vindicated. he did not.

He considered continuing the work, trash the frail body of the diminutive black girl, completely.

He wen off the room, instead, closed the door, sat against the wall.

And he cried.

He was a monster, and a prisoner of his own choices - from now on, all had to follow its path.

Till the dirty, messy, stupid end.

NCS -Non Consensual Story (Part 1).

This is a work of fiction. 

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. 

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and, frankly, undesired on the author's part.

---

Joshua "Josh" Lightgow was a rich man.

He hadn't always been one, or even aimed to become one.

When he was young his dreams were much simpler. Marrying the woman he loved, have a couple of children, a house in the suburbs. Normalcy, as they say, in all its heinous glory.

It didn't work out that way - she left him for a guy with grander ambitions, a day-trader that worked at Lehman Brothers, that earned thrice as much as Josh.

As many of his colleagues, the guy had then lost everything when the Lehman imploded, but by that time she had moved onto a bigger mark... and Josh took a perverse pleasure in knowing it.

Yet , some day... some day she will have to pay.

Needless to say, when she left him Josh was really distraught.

It took him a couple of years, and a couple more of failed attempts at starting a relationship, to get back on his feet. When he finally did,  he managed to do so through a wholesome revision of his own world view.

The companions that he so desperately wanted do not exist. His drunkard father and crazily possessive mother, nuts as they were,  were right: women are, at hearts, whores looking for a wealthy man.

Thinking to build a life with one of them was foolish, completely.

His job had laid him out at the very start of his troubles, just after a month or so of his moping around. It didn't matter - the company went busted soon after, anyway, but the fact that the boss that decided to fire him was a woman didn't help matters.

John found himself writing cheap "romantic" novels for the likes of his "wife" - barely hidden rape fantasies and hyper-gamy unleashed, for dumb cows that didn't even realize how akin to bad pornography that stuff was.

The chicken idiots couldn't resist, and soon the pseudonyms Josh uses to sign his works - Valeria Steedle and Patricia Loughear - started alternating their presence in the New York Times Best Seller list.

Never above a comfortable centre-of-the-list, as to sell enough copies to pierce in the top twenty would require a lot more male readers than what Josh would care to have.

Because Josh wrote his books with the secret gusto of damaging, silently, his women readers, by trapping them in a mirror of his own unrealized romantic aspirations.

He sold copies, made money, invested it wisely, made more money, and so on.

Money begets money, they say, and it is true.

All this notwithstanding, Josh was merrily unhappy and unsatisfied. He really couldn't outgrow her and what she did to him, though a well padded wallet was a way better cushion than an empty one, upon which to rest while crying his pain out.

He went on for quite a while in this way, till he realized that he really needed a catharsis, a vengeance - to get rid of her, so that his heart could finally be sated.

Little did he knew, in reality, of freedom and life... his quest for vengeance wasn't something capable to set a man free, but what we ignore cannot save us fro our follies, and he set forth to plan the execution of his great vengeance.

Always a methodical man, he realized that he needed to arrange a dry run, a test run of himself in the new role of God of vengeance.

Maybe some smarter part of him, deep down where his eyes couldn't reach, was just trying to buy some time.

He decided to start with a morsel less dangerous than his socialite, well connected wife.

Not a bleeding liberal heart he was, yet he knew the difference between destroying some black dregs of a woman and a rich WASP, when it comes to law enforcement response, to be true.

The first would have maybe warranted a routine search, the second would have gotten far more media attention and drawn a full effort on the part of the police.

So, reason said him to start with someone that could disappear without being missed, one of the poor saps that read his drivel preferably - because, deep down, he hated them wholeheartedly - and, if possible, a black girl of particularly African looks. The less the white-looking, the better. 

Kyla was 12, when her stepfather decided that she was woman enough to meet his needs.

The next few years had been hell, as her mother - with a logic as insane as heartless - decided to hate her for having "stolen" her her man. He abused her time and again, while mother treated her more and more coldly, till Kyla found the strength - or the desperation- to run away.

Life in the street for her proved to be brutal, but still better than what she had at home, and she had an unexpected shot of luck.

One of her clients gave her a hand, a place to stay and helped her found a job as a cleaning maid - all she could get with her non-existent degrees.

She recompensed him with plenty of sex, of course, but he was kind of a right guy... he didn't choke her, beat her,  tried to rape her nor did he stole anything from her.  By the time they had met, in Kyla's book this already read as being, positively, a gentleman.

He was a lecherous looking guy with insane habits, so much so that he called himself "leach", yet he was a huge step upward from her stepfather.

They separated after a couple of years or so -  because she had grown up a bit and, with a better diet, she had finally started looking like a woman; a fact that profoundly disgusted him, as much as he tried to hide it.

His shortcomings notwithstanding, he had left her able to stand - shaky as she was - on her own feet, and she vowed herself to never come back to whoring again, so Kyla decided to keep cleaning houses for a living, study at night, and went through life baring her knuckles on a daily basis. She was a though young woman, yet she was not yet a cynic. In her moments of respite, she read romantic novels, and dreamt of wealthy guys with athletic bodies that could see beyond her wasted hair, her precociously wrinkled eyes and her sore hands.

She suspected these novels to be a pornography of the soul, written for and by sad women, but she didn't really care. As "leach" said the last time she saw him - skinnier than even she had ever been, even at the worst time of her life - in the hospital, toward his end...

- "No matter if it is stupid, shameful or even illegal, kid. Take whatever you need to go on, step by step, and the rest... let it go."

When the hospital letter finally came in, telling her that she had won "the lottery" and she didn't catch the damned bug from the guy, she went out to buy the last Patricia Loughear novel, and hooked up to the shabby plot with a happy bliss. In her own way she was following his last, and only, advise.

When "leach" finally died, two months after, she finally wrote to Patricia Loughlear, unwinding all the stress, the tears, the troubles of her crappy little life, in a moving letter written with an earnest heart.

Josh read that letter, laughing all the time like an idiot, almost at every phrase - eager as Kyla was to improve herself, she was still a functional illiterate with a flair for excessive melodrama, and Josh had completely lost his ability to empathize with others - and he immediately decided that she was the right subject for the experiment.

Nobody would miss her.  She was already a zombie, in more than one way, no family, almost no friends... a living dead, waiting to be finally put to rest.

Josh felt obliged to help such a loving reader finally find the peace that she was so evidently longing for. And she had put her full address, on the envelope.

Josh found a flat, in the building in front of her, from which to observe his prey, while he looked for a bigger, more private place in the countryside around her city.

He replied to her letter, using a bright orange envelope, than flew to the flat, in order to be there by the time the letter arrived. This way, he was able to see that, indeed, she was the person that he deduced from the many clues that she put in her letters.

He soon bought a farm, in a small town not far from the city.

The place was quite secluded, the nearest construction being almost a mile away, and it was surrounded by woods. It also had an anti-atomic bunker, a remnant of another era when the U.S. was in the grips of hysteria, now used as a storage area for food.

Just seeing it, Josh thought plenty of better ways to use the ancient underground complex, so he was more than happy to pay a slightly higher price for aplace with such a marvellous dungeon.

The area was losing population, like the nearby town - people was driven away by the loss of jobs after the closure of the local plastic factory, and the fear of unrecoverable, long term environmental dangers due to the former's dispersal of toxic materials. Undoubtedly, it was going to become yet another ghost town, another monument to the backsides of the American Dream,

He rented an apartment in the palace in front of Kyla's flat, to keep an even closer eye on her, and proceeded to alternate living between there and the farm. He emptied the bunker, and bought some "furniture " for it,

Her life was even sadder than what he thought from her letter. Getting her rid of it was going to be, almost, a good action.

Josh decided to move calmly, writing a new Valeria Steedle book in the meanwhile, with two point of view characters, one for when he was working in the farm, one for when he was checking on Kyla - "Aftermaths"... it became a huge success, and it woke up a career that had grown quite opaque, much to the chagrin of its writer.


The last thing Josh wanted, right now, was the distraction of having to manage a literary success beyond his usual, comfortable middle of the list. For the first time, he had to contemplate using some kind of front-woman to play the role of Valeria Steedle... luckily for him, his agent had contingency plans for the case.

Valeria Steedle was soon played by a washed out theatre actress, without more hassle - for Josh - than jotting down some stage notes for the impersonator , every now and then. A drain of his energies, but not one so deep as he initially feared...

Meanwhile, his observation of Kyla's life led him to discover that she was taking a course in creative writing, at night, in a community college. He decided to enrol in it, to be nearer her.

He still  couldn't imagine how to kidnap her, without leaving too many clues about what had really happened. Initially he thought that he would have had to hide his literary talents, but he soon discovered that it was not necessary. Million copies sellers as he was, his writings did not excite any of the people in the course, least of all the teacher, one hard mean ghost writer, specialized in biographies, by the name of Liam Marder.

Josh had to fight, time and again, the desire of leaving the course after this or that cutting remark from Marder. In this, it was not any better than what Kyla had to endure... after a couple of months, Josh had managed to become friend of Kyla, united by their struggle with the mysteries of the English language.

By the end of the course, though, Josh managed to let drop that he was not going to follow it the next year - he didn't need to continue the charade any more, and didn't want his desire of abducting Marder grow any bigger.

He confided Kyla that he had found a job as a ghost-writer, but that he would have needed some help, and that everything was to be kept on the hush-hush: he didn't want to risk that someone of the others could steal his occasion.

After another month and a half, Josh contacted Kyla - he really needed a critical editor, someone who could read his notes and help him polish the style.  he offered her the job, a bit better paid than her cleaning work, but nothing otherworldly.


Initially, she worked at home, correcting what were the first chapters of Josh first - and only - foray into science fiction. Soon, she came to recognize that working with Josh, at the studio in the farm, was probably better. 

On a spring morning, she took the bus to Downtown, and climbed in Josh's old Roadmaster, with all the things that she had in a couple of bags, her heart full of newfound hope. Not having to pay the rent of her ludicrously small flat while having a more spacious room in the farm was a bonus she had decided to take.

She was going to be a writer, and was really happy of having this opportunity with Josh.

Josh was a soda maniac, so she had never saw him drink anything that was not carbonated and caffeinated.

When he finally made his move, she didn't realize anything was different - he never drank water from her same bottle, anyway. She fell asleep while redressing a particularly convoluted paragraph, one that reminded her of certain not so satisfying passages in Patricia Loughlear's works.

When she awoke, she was naked and chained to a bed, in a place that she had never seen before.

It was, of course, just the start.