Most of our troubles come from our first impulses. The slightest enthusiasm costs more than a crime—EM Cioran
So I'm feeding her these eggs. And her breasts are moving when she leans her head forward to clean the plastic spoon.
"You don't seem like a violent person," she says.
"I'm not."
"Then why are you doing this?"
"Because I can. And because I want to. Did you watch my movie?"
"Yes."
"Then you weren't paying attention."
"Let me watch it again."
I hold the spoon still.
"I'm not letting you watch it again. And by the way, I did not take the nature videos—they're all stock footage. I just didn't want you to think I was implicitly taking any kind of credit for them. They're all public domain or paid for by a service I subscribe to."
I stick the spoon in her mouth with a piece of egg white and some over-medium yolk on it.
She chews a few times and swallows.
"Why do you have to make a movie? Why can't you tell me yourself?"
"Because you deserve to hear it with a straight face. And I think it is absolutely hilarious that you will die, and absolutely hilarious that I will do it. So there's no way I could get through all that without laughing. See, it's hard for me to keep the proper tone required to tell you what I have done to fifty some girls in this crate and two-hundred more elsewhere and that you are about to join them."
"I would think you would remember the exact number."
"No, you forget."
"Don't you keep a count?"
"No. I kept a count for the first twenty, twenty five. After that it's not really about the number."
I feed her more eggs. When we get to the bacon I have to snap it into little pieces and feed her with my fingers, careful to avoid biting.
"I've drafted many versions of the script to that movie. It's intended to have certain psychological effects, but I'm not a real psychologist. I mean I have no formal training in that field. I'm more of a craft psychologist."
"Is this a joke? You're being so nice to me."
She chews her bacon.
"No it's not a joke I'm going to torture you and then kill you."
Anna looks around the room.
"So you hid my earrings, but my clothes are crumpled on the floor, right in front of me, where I can see them. Why."
"Because. If you see your clothes there, you'll believe that someday you'll wear them again, get out of here, and go back to your life."
"So you want me to have hope."
"Yes."
"Why."
"Because. I want to watch it slowly drain away."
"Well put 'em away."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because I don't have any hope. I didn't even before I met you."
"Sure you do. Let's talk about it."
"Like I'd talk about anything with you."
"Well, just so you know what to expect, in three days I'll lock your clothes in one of those drawers."
"Can't you do it now?"
"I'll do it in three days."
"Do you leave them out for everyone for three days?"
"Yes. It's a procedure. I do it the same exact way every time."
"So you have OCD?" she chuckles.
"Following a procedure is different than having OCD. I follow the procedure because it works."
"But you do have OCD."
She looks straight at me. She laughs like a donkey.
She looks up and down the chair.
"What, are you an out of work gynecologist or something?"
I stand, go to my workbench. I set the plate down and open one of my containers. Inside is a ball gag. Black. I stand behind the girl and put it in her mouth and pull the thick rubber straps around the back of her head, latch them, then tighten the whole thing to the point that her teeth are cutting into the ball.
She goes "Mmm! Mmmm!!" as I sit beside her and eat the rest of her bacon. She's looking at me, looking at the plate, looking down at her mouth, signaling for me to take off the gag.
I just ignore her.
When I'm done eating, I grab a small fluorescent light bulb from one of the drawers of my tool chest. I go inside to the kitchen. I use tongs to hold the lightbulb above a gas flame on my stove, turned up to high. I rotate the bulb so that it's uniformly hot. I touch it with my finger. It burns the skin. I go back out to Anna.
I set the lightbulb on my work desk.
There are pins in the legs of the chair. I lift them and widen her legs, then drop the pins to secure the legs in their new, wider position. I bring the lightbulb over using the tongs and touch it to Anna's pussy. Her lips have opened naturally as the legs of the chair have widened. Anna screams when the lightbulb touches her puss. It burns and shrivels the hair covering the opening of her vulva. She flexes this way and that, trying to sit up higher in the chair to avoid the touch of the fluorescent lightbulb, but in that chair she's not going anywhere.
I use my fingers to pull apart her vaginal opening and I push the lightbulb inside her body. She screams with her eyes. Her breathing is frantic. I have seen the vaginal wall microscopically many times and I imagine all those little pods and tendrils packed with nerves burning and dying and receding and killing the feeling in this most lovely part of her body. If she hadn't made the remark about the out of work gynecologist I wouldn't be doing this. It's an exchange, you see—where a girl learns to behave. Anna doesn't yet know how to behave. But she'll learn.
I use the tongs to turn the lightbulb all the way around—a full rotation—to make sure she gets the benefit of the heat.
I take my dick out. It is already hard.
I fuck her with the lightbulb and the tongs while I jerk my dick off. Every time the lightbulb cools, I go back into the kitchen with my cock hanging out my pants and I heat the lightbulb on the stove. I get it so hot I can hardly put a finger on it. I touch it to my dick for fun. There are so many burn marks on the top of my dick I could never count them. Then I go back into the crate.
Every time I re-enter her view, Anna screams and squirms—and every time I stick that lightbulb in that little girl's cunt, I do it just to see the reaction in her eyes. Her eyes stop looking between her legs and roll back in her head. I can see the strong tendons in her thighs—one pulling, then the other, then both as she tries to escape first to one side, then the other, then back and up in the chair.
I get a good motion going with the lightbulb and this is the fourth or fifth time I heat it. She's getting used to it. She no longer screams through the ball gag, though the reflex of trying to escape the hot bulb remains. My cock is oozing cum. I hardly have to touch it. Just knowing that her most tender parts are being singed to the point of injury is almost enough to make me cum spontaneously. I fuck her ever deeper with the tongs until the lightbulb disappears inside her and Anna starts to moan again—deep moans of a different quality—it's the shift from external to internal pain, I know—the shift from the many hypersensitive nerves of the outside of the body to the sparser, deeper nerves inside the body. Pain on the outside tells your body to watch out; pain on the inside tells your body that something is going terribly wrong. Like kidney stone pain: the reason it's so unbearable is it's not superficial. It's telling your body that it's being injured on the inside. And that—while not as dramatic as pain on the outside of the body—is pain that gets you in the mind, too, because you know that, in small ways, you're dying.
I took that lightbulb out of her vagina gently. Her little bulbs and tendrils would grow back. She would feel again there. She would fuck and enjoy it—I would see to that. But the bitch needed to learn that I don't appreciate amateur stand up from girls in the chair. If I want jokes I'll turn on Anthony Jeselnik.
Anna opened her eyes when I pulled the lightbulb out of her vagina and she had the appropriate expression: fear.
I gave her clit a quick lick.
She screamed through the ball gag.
"That's my clit now," I said, and brushed my finger up it.
I left the crate.
I put the lightbulb in my biohazard trash and the tongs in the dishwasher.
I sat in my reclining chair and listened to Anna mew through the ball gag. I knew she was crying, and I didn't want to see that. She was crying because she knew that this was real—that I could be as friendly as I wanted and I was still going to burn her precious vagina any time I wanted, that I was going to touch her clit when I wanted..and I knew she was imagining many worse things that I would do to her—and she was right about most of them.
She could tell know what I was.
She could tell that if I wanted to shut her up..that I would shut her up.
She knew that she was going to have to pee eventually and that she'd be doing it in that chair; that she'd shit herself there and have to bear the embarrassment of me cleaning it up, of seeing and smelling these most intimate things her body produced.
I liked her. She was a good girl. And I imagined, sitting there in my reclining chair slowly stroking my cock, something special for her—something better than death—and I tried to wrap my mind around how to do to her what I had never done to any other. I wanted to own her more completely than I had owned a girl. I thought of the work I had done before—before I came to Pain, supposedly to retire—and I thought of how limited our ideas had been. I can't tell you what we did there, but I can certainly say that it lacked imagination. Government work always does. It might sound funny but I think of myself as a kind of artist—did you know I do watercolor? Flowers, mostly. But the kind of artist I'm talking about is a psychological one. I don't know. I didn't know if I had it in me to do to Anna what I envisioned. You have to retire from this work eventually or it gets to you.
I went out to the crate. Anna was crying silently and I wiped her tears away with my thumbs.
Then I dropped my jeans, popped the chair into convex mode, and jumped on top of her.
I stuck my cock into her injured vagina.
And I fucked.
Ahhhhh..
The feel of pussy once again.
It cooled something in me—something crazy.
Anna was screaming—I assume due to the fact that her vagina was burned the fuck up.
But to me it felt just fine.
I could feel her contractions, and knowing they were contractions of pain made my cock as hard as it gets.
She had a little girl pussy—I could tell she had never delivered any children—hers was a long pink slit in a sea of pale leg, inner thigh host to clit, pee hole, and vag as pristine as if she were a middle school girl getting fucked for the first time. My right hand automatically went for her neck, and I squeezed so tight I could feel her jugular. Then Anna got quiet, and all I could feel were tears, and tears, and tears.
I got my rhythm, looking down at my dick buried deep within this little girl, and I matched up in my mind the sight of my dick disappearing into her body with the feeling it caused in me, and I knew I was about to cum.
I looked her in the face, and I saw the beginnings of a broken person—which, strictly speaking, is my specialty—and I used that bitch's cunt to get myself to that point beyond which there is no return, and when I knew I was going to cum I looked her in the eyes and I said to that little girl:
"Next time leave the jokes to the professionals."
And then I rubbed myself against her serrated insides and as I was cumming I said:
"Understood?"
And I came.
And she nodded. And she nodded. And she nodded with her eyelids pressed closed.