Chapter 11 Fredrick
Fredrick
“Please,” she screams, begging me to let her go—to free her from the bear trap embedded in her mangled ankle.
“It’s far too soon for your pleading,” I tsk, wrapping the metal chain around one of the poles on the bed.
Then I pull the other trap, watching in ravenous glee—in rapt attention as the bone in her ankle snaps.
“Ahhh,” I sigh, lifting my hands to conduct her screams like an orchestra playing Symphonie fantastique at Musikverein—the macabre piece, perfect for the scene in front of me.
A spluttering whine sounds behind me, and I remember I have guests to entertain before Talia arrives.
Talia.
Images of her tender, young, supple body come to mind. We’ve tracked her through the years, though we lost her for ten years after her escape. It wasn’t until she resurfaced that we understood why. She was being hidden until she was ready to be found.
“Let me the fuck out of here.” The gravelly voice echoes from the cage to my left, where I’ve kept the driver who brought this latest batch of visitors. The interruption pulls my attention away from the other two women I have chained by the ankle across the room.
One of them belongs to Griff, and the other to Jackson. Neither of them responded when I asked why their picks are still roaming freely.
Snooze—you lose.
I already have so many plans for them tonight.
Grinning, I reply, “Do you want to know why you’re here, Barty boy?”
He chuffs, “You’re supposed to let me go.” The stern set of his brow is meant to appear intimidating. At least that’s what I think he’s going for. Instead, he looks like some hybrid of constipated and goofy.
Stepping away from my beauty on the bed, I stroll to his cell. “Don’t you find it interesting how nobody ever knows everything that goes down here?” I fiddle with a strand of his hair. “Don’t you wonder why they pay so much just for you to drive a box truck filled with our prey?”
His pupils dilate, tripling in size, and I snicker. “W-w-w-what do you mean?”
“Finally,” I remark with amusement. “You’re understanding the severity of your situation, Noah.”
“Please,” a mumble whimper sounds from one of the girls on the floor. She’s the one missing an ear. She pretended that she couldn’t hear me, so I made it so she really couldn’t.
What’s that saying—hard ears feel. Remembering the wise warning of Jamaican nanny, Ms. Wendy, almost warms the spot a heart should be.
She’s one of the only women I respected.
She was one of the only women to care. Unlike my mother and the many women who thought my thirteen-year-old body should be fucked before my balls even had a chance to drop.
Anger winds its way through my body at those memories, but it doesn’t last. A smirk quickly replaces the thin set of my lips.
I got my revenge.
All twenty-two of them died by my hand.
The smell of burnt flesh still permeates the room from earlier when I cauterized a wound. The intoxicating aroma reminds me I have toys to break.
Ignoring her pleas, I refocus my attention on the man before me. “It’s time to play, Noah,” I squeal, clapping my hands. “We’re going to have so much fun together.”
Worry knits his brow, three wrinkles creasing his forehead, but before he can open his mouth, I grab him by his collar, pulling him closer. Then I yank the needle from my pocket, uncapping it with my teeth, and jam it into his ass. He struggles, but it’s useless.
Tilting my head, I watch the purple-hued liquid pump into his system. “Don’t fret, dear Noah, with this, you’ll feel the peak of arousal.” The last of the drug shoots into his ass, emptying the needle.
Spark—my perfected concoction. It’s a powerhouse—it’s what would happen if GBL, mephedrone, and meth had a baby.
It’s perfection.
This is five years in the making. Three of them—endless test subjects, myself included.
I worked with the Chemist to make this liquid sex in a vial. It’s the only reason I kept the Chemist alive. It’s also the only reason why this latest batch of victims is filled with Serge’s whores.
Mice wouldn’t work here. I needed to see how people reacted. Plus, I like animals more than I like humans.
A groan comes from the cell. Noah’s reaction is almost instant, but he needs more time to stew before he can come out.
I need him trapped in the thin veil between lucidity and murkiness.
The place where he’s here but not here as I fulfill my most debauched desires.
Not one to make anyone feel excluded, I inject the four women at my disposal with Spark.
This is the part I hate the most—waiting.
Sighing, I begrudgingly turn away and frown until I remember I still need to set up.
My melancholy evaporates, replaced with excitement.
I stride across the room to my cave of fun.
I don’t think anyone who’s ever entered this room would call it that.
Jackson and Griff call it my cave of horrors, but I’d argue the horror is half the fun.
Whips and chains and floggers.
Oh my.
I hum the melody while grabbing my bone and electrical saws, an ice pick, and a torch. “Am I missing anything?” I mutter to myself.
Perusing the shelves, I wait to see if anything else screams “use me.” My gaze lands on my case of surgical needles, a smirk crests my lips, as the memory of the pigeon pairing I made with these needles comes to mind.
Their screams while I used my scalpel to separate flesh from skin—bust a nut in your pants worthy.
I won’t confess, even under the threat of death, how many times it’s happened. Not one to be wasteful, I’d make whoever is at my mercy lick them clean until I’m nut-free.
It’s the thin layer of fat between the dermis and the hypodermis that requires perfect precision to harvest skin that makes my spine tingle.
My cock hardens, the bulbous head straining against the fabric of my pants at the mere thought of the sticky layer of fat, much like other animal meat, that melts away, leaving the skin in pristine condition.
Tortured wails morphed into hiccuped babbles, before warping into gasped pleas while my needle stitched the brother-sister duo together with his dick inside her that night.
I made them fuck until they passed out. I made them fuck until they both craved for—fucking without needing prompting.
They fucked each other, and I fucked them until I was bored.
One can only fuck the same two people in the ass, but so many times.
Shrugging, I accept that there’s nothing else in here that I want, which isn’t too surprising. I already have a few more gizmos and gadgets at my workstation.
Satisfied I’m not leaving anything behind, I stroll back into the main room, depositing the items on the table before surveying my room.
Noah’s jerking off. Sunny, the girl with the bear trap snapped around her ankle, is begging to be fucked instead of crying out in pain. Delaney and Madison, Griff’s and Jackson’s girls, are playing with each other on the ground.
A boner inducing whimper makes me forget everyone in the room, my neck slowly turns until I see her from over my shoulder.
Finley.
I stare on in awe of her grinding against the fuck machine I’ve had pumping into her for the last thirty minutes. Her tan skin glistens with sweat, and I want to lick it as her round tits bounce with each thrust she meets.
Finley’s the closest carbon copy I’ve come across. She doesn’t need any cosmetic enhancements. Her blonde hair will need to be dyed midnight black, and she’ll need contacts to match the hazel-green I need them to be. Only then can she be who I want—need her to be.
Talia.
At the thought of her, my earlier excitement begins anew.
I’ve wanted her even before that night. Not the way I do now, which is under me as I fuck her until I knock her up, branding her as mine.
Back then, it was the need to possess her innocence—her purity.
She looked so pitiful in the days after her parents never returned.
I often found her crying. It’s how I inserted myself like an older best friend.
That thought replays—I inserted myself like an older best friend.
Best friend—older best friend.
The distinction, even then, was not to be seen as an older brother, not that it would’ve stopped me from my need to own her. When you’ve been fucked by your parents, older siblings, and their powerful friends, and conditioned into being a serial killer, there isn’t much room for morality.
“Fuck me.” The whined command evaporates that bullshit bag of trauma no person could ever get me to discuss. It’s why the four of us are brothers. Bound in our tragedies and the bloodshed of that night that changed it all.
As if sensing the epic spiral my stubborn mind wants me to have a front row seat for, Finley groans, “Let your demons meet mine.”
I think I’m in love—like, honestly, in love.
Finley asked to be tied up. She wanted to be fucked to death—no drugs needed.
At first, I thought she was trying to toy with me to see if I’d lower my guard until I saw the dark depravity in her manic silver eyes. She played with herself while the other three girls were being tortured. I watched as she came twice, once on my fingers, the other on my tongue.
Did I mention she’s not drugged, or that I may be in love?
I snort, knowing the only person I’ve ever held any emotional connection to is Talia.
A guy can pretend to be normal sometimes.
I snicker. There isn’t an iteration of the DSM that would clinically diagnose me as anything in the same stratosphere as normal. It’s fun to pretend, though.
One could also argue that we’re all playing pretend—that there isn’t a living thing that isn’t playing pretend, but that’s a philosophical debate for another time.
Instead, I stand over Finley and pinch her nipples, rolling them between my fingers until she begins to squirm. I take time savoring her—her makeup askew and yearning oozing off her.