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Authors: Suzanne Steele
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successful team at it as well.
“How do you determine whether you’ll torture a victim or not?”
“It just depends on the nature of their crimes. If they’ve tormented society with senseless killings, and I feel the need to make them suffer for it, then I do. If I need information, and they won’t give it to me, then I convince them to do so by any means necessary.”
“How do you get them to give you information if they know they’re going to die anyway?”
“When the pain gets intense enough, believe me, death is seen as a welcome escape. I’ve had victims beg me to kill them just to put an end to the suffering I’m causing.”
I begin walking around the room, processing everything my husband has said and looking at all the implements he uses to kill men who don’t deserve to breathe the same air as us.
“What is this tank for?”
He saunters over to me, laying his hand over mine and looking at me face to face.
“Nitrous Oxide, better known as laughing gas.”
“You’ve certainly thought of everything.”
“Yes, I have.”
“What is this?”
I point to a black rolled-up piece of suede material. With the expertise of a man who knows what he’s doing, he unties the black satin string and rolls out the material on the long formica countertop. The fluorescent running light, shining down from overhead, reflects off the silver blades, making them gleam as if they’ve just been polished. How can something so deadly be so beautifully intriguing?
I run my fingers over them with loving care.
“Careful, I keep my blades razor sharp.”
“I’m well aware how sharp you keep your knives. Have you forgotten so soon that I’ve been on the receiving end of them?”
I gently touch the bandaged area on my breastbone, wincing from the pain that’s still so fresh.
“Of course not, love. How could I ever forget something so deliciously gratifying?”
There’s no doubt my husband has an appetite for my pain, and he’s created an equally strong hunger in me to feel the pain he subjects me to.
More than once, we have given ourselves over to the excitement the danger of knife play brings us—tonight certainly wasn’t the first time he’s cut me. It is, however, the first time I have been branded with a specific carving. There really is nothing like knife play to get the adrenaline pumping. The fear my husband is able to instill in me serves as a powerful aphrodisiac, intensifying the pleasure of our sexual escapades.
“This is part of my kill kit. When I’m unable to take the time to bring a victim back here to our warehouse, I carry this and a few other necessities in a bag I keep in my vehicle.”
It’s the first time he has used the term our. This is no longer just about him. It is about me too. We’re a team, and I have every intention of adding to that team. I am determined to prove the addition of my skills will be advantageous and that I will not be the reason for our downfall.
Chapter Sixteen
Charles
I’m sitting in bed and working on my laptop, listening to the steady rhythm of my wife’s breathing. I’m updating my blog, not because I need to be connected with those who still follow it, but because it’s a connection to people who will give me tips about criminals. My followers contact me with information they won’t give to the police, and that is the site’s true purpose. The blog isn’t as much about me as my followers like to believe. It’s about seeking and obtaining justice for victims who would likely never receive it otherwise.
The authorities hate me. They feel like I am glamorizing vigilantism. I know law enforcement monitors the site, and I take that under consideration as I write my thoughts. My fingers fly over the keyboard, and it’s like I haven’t been gone all these years—like I never left. I know this will set off an avalanche of responses from the public, but what I am going to post needs to be said.
What are your thoughts about a man who
“How do you determine whether you’ll torture a victim or not?”
“It just depends on the nature of their crimes. If they’ve tormented society with senseless killings, and I feel the need to make them suffer for it, then I do. If I need information, and they won’t give it to me, then I convince them to do so by any means necessary.”
“How do you get them to give you information if they know they’re going to die anyway?”
“When the pain gets intense enough, believe me, death is seen as a welcome escape. I’ve had victims beg me to kill them just to put an end to the suffering I’m causing.”
I begin walking around the room, processing everything my husband has said and looking at all the implements he uses to kill men who don’t deserve to breathe the same air as us.
“What is this tank for?”
He saunters over to me, laying his hand over mine and looking at me face to face.
“Nitrous Oxide, better known as laughing gas.”
“You’ve certainly thought of everything.”
“Yes, I have.”
“What is this?”
I point to a black rolled-up piece of suede material. With the expertise of a man who knows what he’s doing, he unties the black satin string and rolls out the material on the long formica countertop. The fluorescent running light, shining down from overhead, reflects off the silver blades, making them gleam as if they’ve just been polished. How can something so deadly be so beautifully intriguing?
I run my fingers over them with loving care.
“Careful, I keep my blades razor sharp.”
“I’m well aware how sharp you keep your knives. Have you forgotten so soon that I’ve been on the receiving end of them?”
I gently touch the bandaged area on my breastbone, wincing from the pain that’s still so fresh.
“Of course not, love. How could I ever forget something so deliciously gratifying?”
There’s no doubt my husband has an appetite for my pain, and he’s created an equally strong hunger in me to feel the pain he subjects me to.
More than once, we have given ourselves over to the excitement the danger of knife play brings us—tonight certainly wasn’t the first time he’s cut me. It is, however, the first time I have been branded with a specific carving. There really is nothing like knife play to get the adrenaline pumping. The fear my husband is able to instill in me serves as a powerful aphrodisiac, intensifying the pleasure of our sexual escapades.
“This is part of my kill kit. When I’m unable to take the time to bring a victim back here to our warehouse, I carry this and a few other necessities in a bag I keep in my vehicle.”
It’s the first time he has used the term our. This is no longer just about him. It is about me too. We’re a team, and I have every intention of adding to that team. I am determined to prove the addition of my skills will be advantageous and that I will not be the reason for our downfall.
Chapter Sixteen
Charles
I’m sitting in bed and working on my laptop, listening to the steady rhythm of my wife’s breathing. I’m updating my blog, not because I need to be connected with those who still follow it, but because it’s a connection to people who will give me tips about criminals. My followers contact me with information they won’t give to the police, and that is the site’s true purpose. The blog isn’t as much about me as my followers like to believe. It’s about seeking and obtaining justice for victims who would likely never receive it otherwise.
The authorities hate me. They feel like I am glamorizing vigilantism. I know law enforcement monitors the site, and I take that under consideration as I write my thoughts. My fingers fly over the keyboard, and it’s like I haven’t been gone all these years—like I never left. I know this will set off an avalanche of responses from the public, but what I am going to post needs to be said.
What are your thoughts about a man who
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