Page 13 of Run

On the rear wall is my St. Andrew’s cross. It’s a large, raw, unfinished, wooden X affixed to the stone, complete with splintered and damaged areas where my weapons have struck it during some previous play. Metal shackles hang unmoving from the four points of the structure, just begging to be filled with the wrists and ankles of its next tenant.

For a space where the saliva, sweat, tears, and blood flow freely, it’s remarkably clean. Just like a professional chef wont cook in a dirty kitchen, I can’t work in a messy room. I make sure that everything is cleaned and put in its place after each session, with the waterproof stone and cement making clean up a breeze with the hose that sits in the corner by the door. A little spray of disinfectant cleaner and a blast of the hose and everything sparkles and shines, ready for the next time around.

“What…what is this place?” He gasps, looking around the room, following my appreciative gaze with his fearful one.

Leaning forward, my body looming over his, he backs into the padded seat, his feet kicking up onto the foot rest, his shoes squeaking on the tacky vinyl. He shudders, his eyes darting between mine and the rest of the room, like he doesn’t know what to be afraid of more, me, or all of the shiny tools of my trade.

“This? Oh, this is my favorite place.” I chuckle, reaching out and brushing his sandy blonde hair off his damp forehead.

He jerks under my touch, his mouth falling open, and a blood curdling scream erupts from him at just the light brushing of my fingertips. The amount he’s shaking could appear like aseizure to the untrained eye, but I know that it’s the fear. I can smell it as I take a big whiff of him, licking my lips sadistically.

“Scream all you want. No one will hear you down here.”

With quick work I tie him to the chair, fighting each limb separately as he tries to pull away, but it’s futile, all he’s doing is throwing himself deeper into the chair and further into my leather strapped grasp.

“What did I ever do to you?” He cries out, struggling against his binds.

“You touched what’s mine.” I sneer, pushing myself up, using his body until I’m standing and turning towards my workbench. “I think for that, you should at least lose a few fingers.”

“What?” His voice shrieks out, his head whipping around to follow my path to the row of implements.

“That’s just for starters.” The gardening shears scrape against the table as I pick them up, flicking the little lock off the handle, allowing the blades to open up. They’re heavy in my gloved hand, and perfectly balanced. “A mighty fine tool, if I do say so myself.” I say, holding them up for him to see.

The light glints off their silver surface, making them almost glow in my grasp as I open and close them with a few quick squeezes.

“Oh God no!” He screams loudly, his entire body jerking in the chair, his hands flexing then curling into fists, trying to protect the digits under his thumbs.

“Oh God yes!” I yell just as loudly, with a mocking laughter at the end, showing him that he can truly be as loud as he needs to be, and no one will come to rescue him.

The nearest neighbor is a half mile away, the property is heavily wooded around the edges of my almost infinite gardens, and the house, including the cellar where he now thrashes and pleads is completely soundproof. No one will ever hear his agony. It’s a dead zone, my dead zone.

“No, no, no, no! Who did I touch? Please!” He continues to scream as I grab his left wrist around his leather binding.

He struggles and curses, spitting at me, his body jerking and his feet trying to kick me with no avail. His straps will keep him firmly in place, that is at least until I have made him so much of a bloody mess that the will to live leaves him. The panic in his eyes as I hold up the shears in front of his face is perfect. His pupils dilate and his irises all but disappear behind the circles of blackness.

“Be a good little boy, don’t struggle, and maybe I’ll go faster for you. But…if you fight, I’ll take them one by one, so slowly that you’ll beg to die.” I whisper in his ear, grabbing his shaggy blonde hair and holding his head still so my lips brush against his tear-stained cheek.

“Y…You’re going to kill me anyways…are…aren’t you?” He asks, his eyes darting across my face, his body stilling, his breath barely able to carry his words.

“Yes. I am.” I hiss, licking up his clean shaven, baby face, tasting the terror in his tears and sweat. “Then I’m going to throw you in my pit, and let the dogs pick at your pieces.”

“Nooo!”

Chapter Eight

His screams are like music to my ears, driving me on to snip those sinful fingers off one at a time while I hum along. It’s a symphony of pain and terror from him, harmonized with my pleasure and gratuitous satisfaction. I wish I could record the sounds of the bones breaking and the shears clicking, plus his cries and my song, but evidence and all that. It would be putting myself at an unnecessary risk.

Blood droplets fall to the cement floor, and the occasional spurt squirts out onto my pant legs, painting my leathers in a crimson ink that disappears against the blackness of them. I may not be able to see the mess on me, but I can smell it. The copper and iron scents of it fill the room, filtering into my nose, making me hungry for more.

He's losing the will to fight. With each digit that falls to the ground and rolls away, his struggles increase, but only for a moment before he slumps in the chair again. His body goes slack between each cut, his held breath returning in quiet pants that blow the tears streaming down his face out at me like little drops of spring rain.

When he slumps, and his head falls to the side, his eyelids fluttering closed, I know he’s at the point that even if given the chance, he wouldn’t be able to run. The trauma is too much, the shock has settled in and taken over. He’s now just an unconscious lump that will be oh so easy to extinguish.

It's an immaculate sight, seeing him passed out, with the bloody stumps where his fingers were still twitching from the residual nerve impulses. With a satisfied growl, I grab the head rest of the chair, leaning over him, and rub my crotch on the destroyed hand that touched my girl.

Lily. Yes. My flower. This is what happens to anyone who touches you from here on out.

My cock thumps behind its leather and fleece confines, growing hard at the feeling of the warmth from his blood. I need to feel it more, to let the heat saturate my flesh. I yearn to be the final person he touches, just like my face was the last one he saw, and my scent was the last one he smelled. In death, I own him, just like everyone else who took the trip he’s taking tonight.

---