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Introduction:

A Modern Tragedy

All the characters in this story are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Look at the tags. If you do not like snuff stories then do not read



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My boredom is my torture. That’s not the most politically correct thing for an actual torturer of girls to say but it’s true. I mean, a girl might experience more physical pain when, say, I snip her nipples off with a pair of scissors, but what about the metaphysical tedium I experience every moment of every day. How do other people bear the sheer mundanity of it all? At least when I’m slicing her up like that she feels alive. She might be feeling it a bit too much, but she is feeling it. Well, in that moment, I feel alive too. We bond.


But things are getting out of hand. My snuff sessions have become too frequent. The missing girls are racking up; the photos of their beautiful faces, taken at far happier times, are splashed over the front pages of every concerned newspaper; their images reminding me, taunting me even, of all the fun things I’d done to them mere days before, inciting me to relive such pleasures more and more often. The tedium of my non-torturing moments clings to me like a bad smell and it takes the fresh blood of a new victim to wash it away.


The increase in my activity has in turn led to enormous pressure piling onto the police, making me their number one priority. It’s only a matter of time before they come knocking at my door, and last I checked boredom is not really considered an adequate defence for serial killing.


So I was in my playroom with what could be my last playmate. I don’t have her actual name so I’ll call her Carey. She’s got short auburn hair, a button cute delicately freckled face, and a small and slender body. A real pixie vibe to her; can’t be older than twenty. She’s in a state of confusion and panic, having regained consciousness to find herself naked in a strange room, her last memory probably consisted of walking down a quiet lane she had used plenty of times before, music blaring in her headphones, not registering my van as it pulled up beside her.


There was a third person in our playroom who I can’t be bothered to name. Some stupid whore, a passably attractive blonde I picked up who entered my house of her own accord. The whore’s hands were tied up and suspended high above her head, pulling her up so that she almost dangled, only reaching the floor by stretching the tips of her toes. A ball gag was stuffed in her mouth, and she still wore her tube top and short skirt, and bled from the cunt. I’m sorry for wasting these words on her, but don’t worry, her pointless existence will occupy only one more paragraph.


“Please,” begged Carey, all curled up in the corner on the other side of the room. “Please, don’t.”


I stood next to the whore, and looked to her as she looked to the ground and trembled on her toes. Blood still trickled down from her inner thighs and over her tensed calves to pool on the floor. I punched the whore as hard as I could in her soft belly, which swung her whole body back and elicited in her an awful guttural gasp. Fiona appreciated how good a punch that was by screaming and covering her face with her hands. The whore’s eyes bulged out to stare directly into mine as she couldn’t help but swing back to me. I delivered the second blow on the volley; a powerful right hook to her left side that cracked, I’m sure, a few ribs. My fists pounded her body eight or nine more times, pulverising her guts and smashing in her ribcage and rupturing her tits. Blood and bile rose up in her mouth and overflowed past her ball gag to drip down her chin. She was in the last throes of life, and I let her be, in order not to mercifully quicken her end. So that’s the foreplay done with. I turned to Carey.


Carey huddled in the corner, crying out to God or Jesus or whoever. I unzipped my flies and unleashed my fully erect cock as I strolled towards her. I towered over her, stroking my cock with one hand and stroking her hair with the other.


“Look at me.”


With caution she lowered her shaky hands, unveiling wide teary eyes pleading with me to stop. Don’t do it. Please don’t do it. I don’t deserve this. Well Carey – you’re right. You don’t deserve this. You just happen to be one of those unfortunate creatures that give me a raging hard-on. And lives nearby. That’s all.


“Listen sweetie,” I said, “You are probably going to die a horrible death.” Her face crumpled into a deeper despair than she might have believed possible, and that just made me jerk off more furiously. “But you know, the cops are closing in. It’s only a matter of time before they find me, so,” I stopped jerking off to caress her tear-stained cheek with the back of my hand, my knuckles sore to the touch from the whore-bag workout. “So maybe you can play along and do what I say and maybe I’ll keep you alive long enough for the cops to charge in and save you. Understand?” There was a deliberate flicker in her eyes that showed me she at least registered the point.


I grabbed a clump of her hair and yanked her head closer till her face was inches from my cock.


“Kiss it.”


She didn’t respond. I slapped across the left side of her face.


“Kiss it.”


She was too busy reeling from that strike, grimacing and exhaling through gritted teeth, and so again failed to respond. I slapped the same side of her face three more times, reddening the cheek, pinning her arms into the wall with my knees and still holding firmly onto that clump of hair to stop her from turning from my blows.


“What did I just say?”


I slapped her a few more times on that side, even harder.


“Kiss it now!”


Sobbing, she tried to purse her lips, but another slap stopped her.


“Come on.”


Before she could even react another series of slaps rained down hard and fast, till she became dazed, only remaining upright because she was pinned up against the corner. Her eyes lost focus and the left side of her face swelled red raw.


“Fine, if you’re not going to play.”


I spun her around to face the corner. I pushed down on her spine, making her back arch and her pale pert butt cheeks stick out. I dug my fingers into her hips and positioned my cock against her sphincter. Even having sodomized plenty of girls younger and tighter than Fiona I still found it took some considerable effort to shove my unlubed rigidity into her. As my girth squeezed in and stretched her and I slowly forced my entire length in she screamed. Her scream couldn’t be heard in the outside world, it just reverberated back and forth between the walls of our playroom, echoing her pain and magnifying my pleasure.


As I started to pound her ass my sense of self control dissolved. I pulled out of her, made a few quick strides towards my desk, picked up a claw hammer, and returned. She didn’t dare move an inch, expecting me to resume my anal assault and preferring that to anything else she feared I had in store for her. She hadn’t seen me pick up the tool. Her ass still gaped a little, and with a smooth underarm swing I slammed the two prongs that were the claw end of the hammer into her gape. She wailed like a new-born, her body jolting and convulsing. With the hammer hooked in I pulled her up by it, raising her ass into the air. Blood streamed down her perineum and cunt. She thrashed about in agony. I yanked on the handle and dragged her body back nearer to my desk. As I tugged the hammer free some prolapsing flesh bubbled up from her hole. Using my cock I pushed the flesh back in and resumed pounding her ass, fucking the wound and eliciting from her an ear-piercing shriek.


“That’s it sweetie, that’s what I want to hear.”


She kicked her bare feet against the hard floor, presumably a pitiful attempt to waylay some of the pain. I just kept fucking her. My cock now thrust with ease in and out of her blood sodden hole; I could feel the internal rupture each time I slid up against it; the torn shreds of flesh that caressed over my shaft so softly must have felt to her like the jags of a saw shredding every nerve ending. I sodomized her for quite some time, till her screams became little more than animalistic squeals.


When I withdrew, I let go of her hips and caught her by the hair to stop her collapsing and yanked her around so that her half-battered face was again level with my cock. She exhaled rapidly through clenched teeth that clearly weren’t going to unclench by themselves. This wasn’t a state conducive to my pleasure, so I punched her on the jaw, and when with a crack her mouth split open, I used both hands, one to pull up on the roof of her mouth and one to press down on her lower jaw. I pushed down on the lower jaw until I heard another cracking noise, and when I let go her mouth was stuck wide open, her jaw dislocated a bit to one side, just like that Edvard Munch painting. Not being one to turn down such an invitation, I stuffed my cock - dripping with the blood of her insides - into the mouth and down the throat of this living work of art.


Her nostrils flared as she tried to wrench herself free, but I kept my cock locked in, blocking her airways and muffling her screams. She screwed her bloodshot eyes shut. The walls of her throat convulsed around the girth of my helmet and her body started to spasm. I drove more of my length in, sliding back only to push deeper and deeper. I made sure not slide back far enough for her to breathe. I fucked her throat, inching in with each thrust till the hilt was almost kissing her lips. Her lids flickered open and I saw her eyes roll back into her skull. The relatively unbruised right side of her face turned purple through lack of oxgen. She retched violently, and I felt the tingling sensation of something rising up against my blockage. I let go.


Her head snapped back in instinctive recoil. Vomit flew out – all over my cock, down my trousers, on my shoes. Everywhere.


“Look what you’ve done,” I said pinching her bruised cheek, “Didn’t your Daddy ever teach you any manners?”


I plunged back into her throat, squelching and sloshing through all that her gagging brought up. In, out, in, out. More vomit arose, but she couldn’t splutter it out anymore. Every time my cock slammed the back of her throat I heard a moist smacking sound, and I fucked it faster so that the moist smacks reverberated in rapid succession, as of someone furiously clapping (a fitting applause). Each thrust, like a savage punch, bounced off the back of her throat only to punch at it harder and harder and harder - her face rendered cartoony in its babyish expression of pain.


It didn’t take long for her to choke to death, and I continued the frenzied fucking, using her lifeless skull as a masturbatory device, until after five or ten minutes I came. I let go and the body fell. My cock felt sore and was coated in her blood mixed with her drool mixed with her vomit.


There was a time when I prolonged their suffering for many more hours than that but I guess I don’t have the patience anymore. The buzz also lasted longer, sometimes for hours. Now it recedes before the body is cold, before the blood congeals. These days the tedium stalks me from the shadows even as I murder. Fucking someone to death brings only a short relief. As soon as the experience retreats into my short-term memory it is nothing. It's as dead as the girl, and I'm left to face this life again, all on my own. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.


Now do you understand that first sentence?

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