THE GH MURDERS (A QUARTET)

Bobby (Adagio)

He had been curious about it for a long time. It was part of his nature, he guessed. Curiosity. Not the other thing. That was just a fluke, or so he preferred to think it. An unresolved pull of the gut. Once he got it off his system, all would fall into place, the voracious need finally quenched allowing him to go on with the rest of his life.

Now that he thought about it, he had been curious for ten years. Ever since he got married. Perhaps the thought, or the embryo of it, had been there before. But, if so, in such an inconspicuous way, that it had never bothered him. Nonetheless, the same night when he shared the vows with Natasha, the idea crept in unannounced. That much he remembered. Had it been the notion of irreversibility that came with it and that suddenly seemed to weigh on him in such a cumbersome manner? The notion that there was no more space in his life for new and original, no more room left to experiment, that he had jailed himself in a permanent state from which there was no escape? No adult responsible one, at least.

He tried to find solace in the thought that many men went through the same kind of thing, even if the particulars might differ from his. True, it usually happened in the days preceding the wedding. In his case, it had been different. It took him by storm on the wedding night itself. In fact, right before his cock slid into Natasha, which was the weirdest part of all. By that time, they had already had sex dozens of times. He knew each inch of her body with the steady assurance of a weary traveller. Her skin was no longer a foreign land and it had not been for many, many months. Yet, he suddenly found himself considering a series of what ifs.

He would picture a long thick dick slowly sprouting from the shaved patch of her groin, a new-born tree growing out of that barren field. He imagined what it would feel like to have a pair of low-hanging balls resting peacefully on top of his thrusting shaft as he tested the constricting embrace of the creased sphincter, the lure being the weight of those two soft moving sacks and not exactly the concept of anal itself. Of course, she had allowed it a couple of times, even if not in a very volunteering way. So, it was not the idea of fucking an ass that spurred his curiosity. Well, not her ass, at least.

He also knew that, at some point, he would feel the will to slide out so that he could bend over and take the whole length of the gorging cock into his mouth, preferably right down to his throat, as his hands travelled up the rough torso, feeling the outline of the ribbed abdomen and finally playing with the nipples, two hard islands surrounded by a sea of hairy muscle. That was probably the hardest image to contradict, since Natasha was so naturally full-bosomed, almost a caricature of a fifties’ pinup.

From the wedding night on, the variety of scenarios that his mind could devise only grew more and more complex. Almost an encyclopaedia of fantasies, a perverted Kama Sutra of his own, secret and guilt-ridden.

It was not that she did not pleasure him. On the contrary, sex with Natasha had always been packed with delightful surprises, a landscape of fulfilment. Perhaps, she was not as vocal and outspoken as he would have wished, never asking him - or ordering him, that would have been much more enticing – to do specific things. She just followed his leads and waited for what he might suggest. Even so, every moment had always been pregnant with an almost perfect sense of satisfaction.

Notwithstanding, on most occasions, the images took hold of him with the urgency of an unsatisfied quest. At those moments, he would merely flip her over, his arms locking her hips into place, as he burrowed his face into the moist familiarity of her sex, his nose insistently brushing up against the slightly stained hole, his chin wistfully picturing the hanging balls that should have been there – he could not get over the unfairness that they were not. The mere thought, however, was enough to get him rock hard. To the point of pain. That was when he backed up and started rubbing his cock up and down, endlessly travelling the distance between her stiff clitoris and the tight ass, as he dropped a hard flow of spit to moisten the desired pathway for his urge, a waterfall of natural lube.

Whenever she resisted his thrusts at her ass, he would simply turn her around and use her mouth instead. He would hold her head roughly until she gagged, wishing that there was a shortly cropped surface (a crew-cut?) instead of the luxurious mane of hair that she was so proud of. In the end, the fantasy would take over – it always did, he realized – and he would unload it all in the very depths of her throat. Once, he had overdone it and she ended throwing up all over the bed. At the time, guilt and shame had forbidden him the fantasies for several weeks.

Eventually, they came back. They always did.

Over the years, he had often played with the idea of putting it into practice. Obviously. Both fear and a dismal sense of righteousness stopped him each time, though. Above all, it was not easy finding a suitable accomplice for his crime. It had to be someone who he could either trust or never see again. Preferably the later, that always seemed like the most adequate (adequate meaning safe) choice.

There was Natasha’s brother, of course. He had gone back and forward with that idea hundreds of times, only to reach the same conclusions each time. For one, he was too out in the open about his homosexuality. Secondly, the undeniable fact that he was her brother, which meant that a sense of sibling loyalty might very easily botch the whole thing up. Thirdly, and most importantly, because Ilya was an unrepentant blabbermouth. He had gotten in the habit of sharing the most pornographic details about his sexual adventures at the most uncanny moments. A fork laden with a mesh of roast and baked potatoes would be halfway to his mouth when he suddenly remembered to impart on the rest of the dinner guests that he had finally managed to have a DP with a couple of big-cocked twins, after years of unsuccessfully trying to get two in at the same time. And he would say it in the most nonchalant and apparently innocent way, just as if he was saying something as menial as “Guess who I ran into today?”

Of course, there was nothing innocent about it, as there was never anything innocent about Ilya as a rule. The truth of the matter was that he just loved the sound of his own voice too dammed much to ever keep quiet about anything. He got a kick out of shocking others, for the sheer pleasure of it. Besides, he thought himself a bit of a comedian, which meant that he was always testing others with outrageous puns, devising new and original ways of seeming witty. Well, to be honest, he was also successful at it most of the times. He could be downright hilarious, in fact. Not that Bobby appreciated it very much whenever the subject broached man to man intercourse. Too close to home, as far as his fantasies were concerned, and that always left him feeling awkward.

He wondered if Ilya’s closeness to his day to day life had somehow helped preserve the need, a reminder of sorts. He did not feel particularly attracted to him, not in a physical sense. Perhaps because he seemed too much like a slightly less feminine version of Natasha. Even so, his sexual exploits always got a reaction from Bobby – from his cock at least, which hardened instantly as soon as Ilya drove into the narration of another of his exploits.

It was Ilya, in fact, who accidently gave him the idea. He had heard of such places before, of course. He had even seen a couple of porn movies that featured them. However, it was only when Ilya mentioned them at one time that he started seriously considering the possibility. They consisted of a hole cut out in a wall and could be found in public toilets or in booths at the sex-shops and adult video arcades. These last were the ones that interested him the most, since toilets seemed too public and dangerous.

The concept itself was what allured him so much. The idea of sexually interacting with someone through a hole in the wall. No faces, no identities. Just plain physical discharge. He had researched it thoroughly, reading as much as he could and watching all the videos that he could find at the porn websites. The ones he liked the best were the amateur ones, usually recorded with a hidden camera, which gave a very realistic depiction, or so he thought, of what goes on at such places. He had looked into which venues would be the most adequate for his particular case, trying to understand what type of people would attend it, considering what were the chances of someone he knew seeing him going in (not to mention meeting him there), and so on, and so on…

Each day, he was surer and surer that it was the ideal course for him, the one that would at last accomplish his yearning. He staged every possibility in his mind, trying out each potential scenario, feeding his imagination with all the outcomes, but always certain that there would be a long-awaited release at the end. His fantasies, the enactment of his most deep wishes, dragged him further and further in that direction, making no allowances for the procrastination that had taken hold of him for all of those ten years.

And, yet, now that he was there, about to fulfil that shameful quest of his, he felt scared.

He stood on the empty late-afternoon sidewalk, his eyes longing for the nondescript door on the other side of the street. He knew what awaited him behind it and that frighten him, even if not for the most obvious reasons. There was nothing like the frustration of an anticipated yearning, when compared with the harsh lights of a far less interesting reality. He just hoped that would not be the case, this time. He really wanted it to be as he had devised it in his mind. He did not think that he would be able to handle the disappointment, otherwise. Not after such a long wait. He stood there for close to twenty minutes until finally gathering the courage to step out of the sidewalk and across the street that lead him inside the store.

There were several rows of display stands with DVDs for all tastes and moods: some straight, but most of it gay. Behind the counter, a young man with too much hair gel and an array of piercings covering his face glanced at him with a total absence of curiosity. Next to the counter, a black door with a square of white paper hanging from a precarious strip of scotch tape stated “FUN ZONE”.

“How much to go in”, he asked in a low voice that he hoped sounded ordinary enough, like someone used to it, not even wondering for a moment that asking such a question was enough of a tell-tale of how much of a novice he was at such incursions. When the young man behind the counter stated the price, the only thing he thought was how cheap it was to fulfil his long-awaited desire, after all. So, that was all it took? Getting in and paying a small fee? If that was the case, he could have (should have?) done it years before.

Once he crossed the threshold into the cruising area, though, his heart stopped, freezing him on his tracks. Perhaps because the porn movies could not waste too much money on extras or the amateur videos usually showed the inside of the booths only, he never expected that so many people would be roaming the corridors. In fact, the implied discreetness of such places was exactly what had lured him in the first place and given him enough confidence to risk a visit. However, as soon as Bobby stepped in and the black door shut behind him with a metallic click, all eyes immediately dropped on him. His first instinct was to bolt away. And he would have done it too, had he not suspected that such an attitude would draw even more attention.

He dared a brisk inquiring look at the other men who watched him with eager anticipation, but quickly lowered his eyes to the floor. Trying not to hurry, but allowing no time or space for any kind of interaction, he bulleted to the end of the corridor, turning the bend that led deeper and deeper into the cruising labyrinth.

After walking for a while, he finally chanced upon a more deserted area and hurriedly bolted himself shut inside one of the empty booths. He sat down and sighed deeply, feeling as if a first important stage of his quest had just been conquered. When he felt that he had grasped a bit of normalcy back – or as much normalcy as could be expected in such a situation – he started looking around with an almost scientific curiosity. There it was, the expected video screen hanging from the wall, displaying the usual images from some porn movie. On each of the side walls, there was a small wooden square that slid between two metal rails, a mechanical contraption that begged to be tried out. Without giving it a second thought, he reached for the one on his right and slid it open, revealing a round hole in the wooden partition that isolated him from the neighbouring booth. The famous glory hole. At last. The star of so many of his secret fantasies of late, the imaginary prop that fed so many jerk-offs.

On the other side of the hole, the booth was empty. He peered in, hoping to get a glance of what was happening out in the corridor, but he could only hear a faint rustle coming from the slightly ajar door. Besides, the sound of the endless groans and moans and butt-slaps coming from the porn movie pretty much drowned everything else. No matter. The place’s ambience was enough to get him started, so he merely unzipped his pants, got his cock out (already half-stiff) and began rubbing it slowly. He wanted it to last. No use being in a hurry. He really wanted to savour it for as long as he could. The truth was that he did not know when he would have the opportunity (or the courage, for that matter) to try something like that again. He was intent on making it last.

He was already rock hard when he felt movement coming from the booth on the left. He stood up, his cock hanging and bouncing as he got near the sliding square, completely oblivious to the awkward ridicule of it. He squatted and slid the square only enough to get a glimpse without being noticed. But the wooden square on the other side was slid shut. He could hear breathing and the wet sloshing of someone sucking (or so he imagined). He slid the square on his side all the way open and then tried to force the one on the other side with his finger, attempting to make it slide too. There was a creaking sound as he managed to make it move an inch. He stopped at once, his heart racing, sure that he had been found out and would be thrown in the street for peeping on the other patrons’ private moments.

It only took him a second, though, to realize that the sucking (or what he thought was sucking) was still going on undisturbed. He tried to force the square to slide a few inches more and, when there was finally enough space to see through, he stopped. He leaned his forehead against the moist-cold surface of the partition, as he tried to find the best place for his eye to peer through.

First thought on his mind: “I was right… he is sucking”. At the glory hole opposite from the one he was at, a skinny young man, naked from the waist down, was kneeling, his head facing the open hole. The movements that his mouth made over the other man’s cock were frantic, slobbered with overflowing gobs of spit, his hand coming to the aid each time that he decided to give some attention to the shaved balls. The glittering purplish mushroom head entranced Bobby to the point of lunacy. He could not take his eyes from it and desperately wanted it inside his own mouth. As soon as he thought it, he saw two violent gushes of cum travelling hard across the air in his direction. They must have fallen very near his side of the booth. That was all that he could see, however: those two initial spurts. The kneeling guy at once swallowed the whole shaft, pressing his mouth hard against the hole and trying to get the rest of the cum inside his throat. Lucky bastard, Bobby thought. He quickly slid the wooden square back into place, before he could be found out.

That was when he heard the scraping sound behind him. He turned around to see a finger caressing the lower circumference of the other hole in the booth. As if testing its smoothness and preparing the way for what would come through, at the same time. He had watched and read enough about it to know that it was an invitation.

As soon as he stood up, the finger receded and a set of lips took its place, opening to the full wideness of the hole, the tongue sticking out and crossing the frontier into his booth, just hanging there, waiting and humid, a welcoming receptacle for his cock.

As if driven by a force beyond his own will, he found himself slowly hovering towards the glory hole. At least, that was how it felt like. His body more being drawn forward, sliding across the minute space, than actually moving. Flawlessly, his cock drove inside the mouth at the hole, in perfect dockage, a ballet of sorts. He instantly felt the moist warmth taking hold of that part of his body, a bit alien to him right now.

He found himself thinking that whoever was on the other side definitely knew what he was doing. The mouth expertly travelled the fullness of the hard length, wetting it more and more as it progressed. When it was sufficiently coated with saliva, a hand started to help, taking turns, crossing the distance between the base and the head. Hand. Mouth. Hand. Mouth. Hand. Mouth.

He suddenly realized that it would be very quick, after all. He felt the waves of surrender taking over him, each time closer and closer to the final burst. It was going to be a big one, he was sure. If the guy opted to take it all inside the mouth, he would surely gag. He wondered if he was a spitter or a swallower. He hoped for the latter. The mere thought brought him across the last threshold, as he pressed his body hard against the partition. His cock thrusted deeper inside the hole, against the physical impossibility of it - as if his body was trying to force its way beyond that insurmountable barrier. For a moment, he wondered if it had been him doing it, or the guy on the other side who had tried to pull him through, tightly grabbing his cock like a lever.

Too late for such thoughts, though. He felt the first warning spurts and then the jerking repetition of the cum streams flowing out. That was when the unexpected flash of pain cut deep through his body and a warm wetness started running down his pants. He nonsensically wondered if he had just pissed himself in the process. He wavered back, suddenly very dizzy, not quite understanding. When his eyes dropped down, he realized that, where his cock used to be, there was now a hollow space and an endless cascade of blood that had already started flooding the linoleum floor. Before he could fully grasp what had happened, his brain shut down from the shock and his body fell helplessly to the floor.

Simone (Andante)

It always happened with mathematical precision. Whenever she was surprised by an unexpectedly good-humoured awakening – sun shining, birds chirping, the whole works – Simone was sure that something would eventually happen during the course of the day to ruin it all. Common sense dictated that she should have gotten used to it by now. Well, she had not. And she pretty much suspected that she never would.

She had always believed that the best thing about Mondays was that there were only five days left until the weekend. That particular Monday, however, she had plenty of reasons to wallow in such a good mood, as the first rays of sunshine started calling out to her across the room and through the iridescent heaviness of the yellow curtains. After all, she had spent such a wonderful weekend. It was virtually impossible not to be in a good mood for the rest of the week.

And, yet, now that she stood over the lifeless body in the confined space of the booth, she desperately wished that she was still under the covers. There was nothing like maimed bodies and blood baths to dampen anyone’s mood.

She did not even have the time to sit at her desk, back at the police station. They immediately threw the file at her – “you’re taking care of this one, from now on” – and told her to be on her way. She quickly skimmed over the pages. It was the third death in less than a month. She had already heard some hushed and mocking commentaries about the first two. That actually explained why they had put her on the case. First of all, all her male colleagues were disgusted with the idea of going to such places and asking questions around. Too embarrassing, not to mention emasculating, taking into account what had happen to those three poor men. Secondly, everyone assumed that she was a lesbian and therefore the obvious choice to investigate a case concerning gay men, not even thinking for a minute that there was as much in common between a fag and a dike as there was between a man and a woman.

It always got to her, even if she was in no way naïve and knew perfectly well how common such assumptions were whenever there was a woman working in a testosterone filled environment. Especially if she knew how to stand her own and did not take any shit from her male partners.

She could feel the rest of her team’s eyes closely observing her. Were they expecting her to waver or even faint? Did they not know by now that blood left her cold and that she always faced death with the detached curiosity of a pathologist? She smirked caustically at the coroner kneeling by the body: “Have they found the missing piece?”

“Here”, a voice behind her said. She turned around to see Eric holding up a plastic evidence bag, with the severed and bloody cock inside. “Why? Wanna see how the other half lives?”, he asked provocatively, “This one doesn’t require batteries”.

She smiled. She was so used to this kind of harassment. At first, she had reported it to her superiors, filed complaints, done everything by the book. It had only made things worse. After a while, she decided it would be better to play the part of the ice-queen bitch.

“Don’t bother, Eric. I only go for really big ones.” She feigned as if to turn, but then continued: “By the way, how does it feel to finally hold a cock you can actually use?”

A young cop in the corridor choked on the coffee he was sipping, as Eric turned violently red and everyone else found themselves fighting both surprise and the urge to burst out laughing. She allowed no time for a reaction, though, and went on, to the coroner: “Do we know who he is?” He handed her over the wallet that he had recovered from the body. She went through it with expert quickness, knowing well what to look for. He did not live very far from there. So, that was worth a try.

She signalled the young cop to follow her. As it were, she had already made all the inquiries necessary and there was little else for her to do at the video arcade. As with the first two murders, nobody had seen or heard anything. Not that it would have really mattered. In all cases, the bodies had been found long after the fact. Usually at closing time, when they checked if all the booths were empty and got ready for the late night cleaning. Even if they had been found before that, and taking into account the permanent comings and goings of the patrons, it was not a sure fact that the person responsible for the killings would still be around. Or any of the ones who had been there at the same time, for that matter. Besides, the constant loudness from the porn videos showing in the booths and corridors forbade any pertinent testimony. Not to mention that everyone would have quickly fled, so they would not be caught in such a compromising venue and to save the embarrassment of publicly explaining what they were doing there.

Notwithstanding, now that there were three deaths, at three distinct locations, on three different days, and considering the estimated time of death established by the coroner for each victim… well, there was actually something they could do. There were obviously no cameras inside the cruising area for privacy reasons. Not even in the corridors. She had been told that sexual activity had been known to happen there in plain sight, on some occasions. Apparently, some people either liked to be watched or were simply too eager to waste any time finding an available booth.

The customer area outside was a whole different matter, nonetheless, and possessed a fully functioning video surveillance circuit. So, all that they had to do was to go through the recordings of each place for the time interval during which the killer was supposed to have been there. In fact, that had been her first order upon arriving at the video arcade: to request the video feed from the last twenty-four hours. There was already a team back at the station going through it, trying to find someone who appeared in all three surveillance videos.

All the same, it was a dire and monumental task. Allowing for a comfortable gap before and after the already wide span of the estimated time of death, it still meant reviewing six to seven hours of video feed for each case. And a keen pair of eyes able to recognize a familiar face among the dozens of people at each one of the places. It was not certain that something would come out of it, but it was all that they had to go on right now (and surely a lot better than nothing whatsoever). After all, it had proven useless to rely on the memory of the video arcade and sex-shop employees. Once again, there were dozens of people going in and out, day and night. Asking if they had seen someone acting suspiciously was also pointless, since most people there would typically act in a stealthy way. It was part of the code and mood of such incursions, she had been told as well.

She glanced over to the young cop sitting next to her in the car. He looked pale and uneasy.

“Not the best way to start the week, I know. It gets easier with time. Are you feeling okay?”

“I just don’t understand why would someone do something like that…”, he answered in a low whisper, his eyes never leaving the road ahead.

There had been two reasons why she had picked him specifically to ride with her. For one, he was obviously a rookie and, insofar, had managed not to be contaminated by the misogynist aggressiveness of the rest of her partners. That also meant that he was not yet cynical enough, and that was something that she could appreciate right now. It was comforting to know that the world still had a stronghold of purity of sorts. On the other hand, he was a handsome young man and that might come in handy should there be a boyfriend or a gay roommate at the deceased’s apartment. Besides, he was pleasant enough on the eyes to make the trip more enjoyable for her too.

She wondered for a moment if that could also be perceived as a sort of sexual harassment on her part, even if she had no intention of acting on it. Although, she had to admit that he was pretty close to her particular type. Teenage-looking, the skin still kind of milky and almost hairless. As Andrew knew well, as it turns out. So well, in fact, that he had come through once again and provided exactly that last weekend.

They had been doing it for some time now. She would show up at his place to find a young man tied up and blindfolded on the bed, waiting for her. Andrew would merely sit and watch – as it had been agreed from the very start – while Simone enjoyed her present. This last time, however, the present had been more exquisite than usual. She had half a mind that the boy was not even eighteen yet. She struggled with the thought, but for a mere two seconds, and then dove in full force. Although young, he was the most willing and experienced slave she had ever met. And he had a huge uncut cock, clear and pinkish. On that account she had not lied to Eric. She did like them big. The bigger, the better. There was no such thing as too big, as far as she was concerned.

Later during the week, she would have the opportunity to go through the pictures that Andrew had taken over the course of the weekend – the session had lasted for a grand total of thirty-two hours – and relive the whole thing all over again. It was at times like those that she delightfully envisioned her mother’s reactions to the specific contours of her sex life. She had always been such a domineering bitch, chastening Simone with her never-ending rosary of religious obsession. She had fought for so long to free herself from the burden of guilt and shame that her mother had tried to instil in her. Up until the point when she met Andrew. That had definitely opened some unexpected doors for her. So, each time she abandoned herself to those sessions, she always thought of her mother strapped to a chair, forced to witness every detail. That was what made her get off, above all else. As a matter of fact, at one particular time, she had not resisted sending her mother a very special personalized Christmas card. It consisted of an elaborately staged photo, Simone in her dominatrix get-up, Santa Claus hat on top of her head, standing over a harnessed boy at her feet, her pointy shiny black boot resting over his back. To give it the final touch, the boy was lying on a white bear rug, in front of a lit fireplace. As far as she remembered, her mother had not spoken to her since then. Evoking the episode, however, suddenly made her imagine her young partner taking the place of the harnessed boy in the Christmas card. She wondered if his ass was hairless and if he would scream too much when she started getting her fingers in.

She forced her mind back to the case at hand.

“The world is full of crazy people and wicked deeds”, she finally said. “It’s better if we just take it at face value and move on, trust me.”

When they got to the dead man’s apartment, they had to wait a good five minutes before someone answered the door. They were actually about to return to the police station when the door opened at last to reveal a redheaded woman in her late twenties. At first, Simone feared that they might have gotten the address wrong. Could the woman be the dead man’s sister? Or a friend, a roommate perhaps? Whoever she was, one thing was certain. It had been a good idea to bring the young handsome cop along. The redheaded woman’s eyes instantly darted to him with an eager curiosity that completely ignored Simone, even though she was the one doing all the talking and her young partner merely stood inconspicuously behind her. Of course, it could have been the fact that he was wearing a uniform, while Simone was not. However, she thought that it might be a bit more than that. She could almost picture the woman luring him to the bedroom, had he shown up alone.

“I’m sorry, but he’s not in.”

“And you are…?”, Simone asked.

“I’m his wife. Why? Is something wrong? Did he get into any trouble?”

Simone always hated when her job made her feel like a character in one of those Lillian O’Donnell’s cheap crime novels. She definitely did not want to be the one breaking the news that her loving husband had been found dead, with his dick cut off, at a gay cruising place.

“May we come in?”, she asked, running all the possible scenarios in her head, trying to buy some time and bracing herself for the hysterical reaction that would surely ensue.

As it were, no such care was needed. The woman accepted the news with a cold resignation, as if already expecting such an outcome. As a matter a fact, there seemed to be some kind of relief in her countenance. From a couple of cryptic comments, Simone deduced that she was perfectly aware of her husband’s incursions. That they were, in all likeness, agreed upon by both parties, a marriage of convenience of sorts. Simone had already heard of such couples, more of a utilitarian contract than anything slightly resembling of love. In this case, not even the suspicion of an accomplice friendship, judging by the wife’s reaction. Had there not been two other murders already and with the same M.O., Simone would have played on the possibility of foul play – a hired assassin, perhaps, that would free the still young woman from a bothersome contract and turn her into a wealthy widow?

After a few more questions, though, Simone was assured that there was not much more to be gained from such inquiries and left. Back at the car, she looked over the case file again, while her young partner sat patiently at her side. On the file’s cover, in bold letters: “THE GH MURDERS”. At least, they had been sensible about that, using an innocuous abbreviation that avoided any misuse – accidental or not – by the press. Its main purpose was obviously to avoid the possibility of a media scandal that would start a panic among the gay community. The gay rights associations would have a field day with it, using arguments of homophobia to justify any delay in solving the case. And that was the kind of bad publicity that the force could very well do without right now. On the other hand, it also allowed those men to keep being butchered, unknowing of the dangers that might await them at such places. Simone hoped at least that some kind of word-of-mouth would start going, dissuading people from visiting the cruising places for a while.

She went through each of the two previous murder reports, a bit more attentively this time. One of the things that had eluded her at the first quick glance was that, on both cases, the victims had been married too, which struck her as odd. After all, at such places, a great percentage of men were gay, even if not necessarily out of the closet. Had the three men been specifically targeted for being married? Had they something else, some other common link between them that would help find the killer? She knew well that motive was the touchstone to solving any case. There was no absolute evil, as there was no absolute good. Everything always had a reason, a cause, and there was no place in the world she knew for mere coincidence or randomness.

She noticed that the second victim’s funeral was taking place in an hour or so. She decided that it might be a good idea to take a look at the widow and perhaps ask her a few more questions of her own. Without a word, she started to the car, intent on dropping her young partner back at the police station and then head for the cemetery.

When she got there, the service was just starting. There were not many people attending. Either he was not a very popular person or, what seemed a bit more likely, the shame brought down by the specifics of his death had driven people away. The young blond woman, of obvious Eastern-European descent, standing at the centre of the small group was most certainly the widow. Right next to her, a fair-skinned blond man. Her brother, probably, believing the information gathered on the file, but also the extreme likeness between the two.

According to the report, and unlike that morning’s merry widow, Natasha had what you might call an emotional meltdown when she got the news. To the point that she was unable to answer any questions and had to be taken to the hospital in the throes of a hysterical outburst. Standing there now, however, her face was unreadable. Her eyes lay on the open grave, unresponsive and seemingly unaware of what was going on around her.

When the few people present started to disperse, Simone chanced some hesitant steps in her direction. Natasha’s eyes rose to her as she drew closer, full of an immense sadness, as if politely preparing for the proverbial condolences. Yet, as soon as Simone introduced herself and stated her purpose, her eyes immediately turned cold and unforgiving.

“This is neither the place, nor the time, to answer such questions. Have you no respect for other people’s grief? Shame on you.”

The words had come out in a steady flow and without hesitation. Allowing for no reaction on Simone’s behalf – and she was not sure that she would have been capable of one – Natasha simply walked away. Simone stood there, watching her go, embarrassed all of a sudden. She was right, of course. It had been callous of her to make such an approach. In her enthusiasm to try and solve the case, she had overlooked the most obvious common sense and probably closed for good any chance of getting useful information out of her. She could almost hit herself right now. If there had ever been a non sequitur worthy of its name, she had just bore witness to it.

In the distance, she saw a tall dark-skinned man approaching Natasha. He had a serious focused look and, for some reason, reminded her of Richard Kiel. So much so that she was half expecting him to open his mouth and reveal the famous metallic denture. He took Natasha’s hand in both his with uncommon tenderness, as her face rose to meet his eyes, the extreme difference in heights turning the occasion into a tableau vivant of sorts. Then, his face suddenly cleared, an unexpected child’s smile colouring his features, so bright and sweet that Natasha was instantly contaminated by it, allowing her own face to open up in an unprotected smile.

It was quite amazing, when you thought about it. Since Simone had gotten there, she had seen Natasha going through an array of moods, her face drastically changing on each occasion. What kind of woman was that? As if she had the potential to morph her emotions on cue. Was it something innate, beyond her control, which made her permeable to all kinds of contradictory emotions? Or was she a consummated actress, perversely and ably weathering each new situation that she faced?

Simone had no time to expand on it. She picked up the cell phone before it could vibrate a second time. The team in charge of reviewing the video feeds, back at the station, had just found a match - someone who had been present at all three locations. She started out for the car wondering if she should try and invite the young handsome cop for a drink after work.

Ilya (Allegro)

He had already heard some rumours about it. Through the grapevine, as they say. At first, he thought that it was just a joke. Someone trying to express a kind of gay equivalent to the vagina dentata, the embodiment of man’s most secret fear of castration. Or perhaps the early inception of some urban legend trying to catch on. God knew there was a fair share of them in the gay community. Ilya’s favourite was the one about father and son hooking up on a chat room, unbeknownst to each other’s identity. As far as he gathered, it had never happened. He had never heard of anyone to whom such a thing had occurred. Ex-boyfriends, work colleagues, bosses, teachers, even the local parishioner… there were plenty of stories about that. But one’s own father? No, no one had ever reported such a thing to him, not even as a third person account. Of course, there was always the hypothesis of shame forbidding admission. Ilya, however, did not give too much credit to such an argument. After all, gay people had millennia of experience with shame and had already learned that the best way to exorcise it was to speak about it (even if it was only in a ghetto kind of way).

So, for all intents and purposes they were mere rumours. Another gossipy craze as many others that plagued the gay community. It was only when Bobby died that he understood that they were no rumours at all.

He was obviously aware of those places. More than that, he had personal knowledge of them, though he had not made such incursions in a very long time. Not since his youth, in fact. He had discovered very early on that anonymous sex held no special charm for him. He had tried it out, as a lot of other things, in the throes of discovery. Nevertheless, once he started understanding what truly turned him on, he chalked it up to experience and moved on. The coloured range of expressions that could course through another person’s face was too seducing for him. He would not renounce it for anything in the world.

The events themselves were shocking enough, of course, though he was not so naïve as to believe such things were not in the realm of possibilities. What truly surprised him, though, was that Bobby could be one to fall in such a trap. For all the years that he had known him, he never suspected him to be the kind of man who would willingly brave such territories. Not that he did not find him capable of the deeds themselves (he knew well enough quite the contrary), but he was too uptight to ever do anything about it of his own volition, or so Ilya thought.

It had been the one big secret that he had always kept from Natasha. And for very obvious reasons. At the time, they were sharing an apartment while still in college. Natasha and Bobby had started dating not long ago. Ilya did not even consider it dating exactly. As far as he was concerned, Natasha was merely fucking Bobby once in a while. So, when he got back home one early morning, after a night of intense partying, to find Bobby in a drunken stupor on the living-room couch, all naked except for a very revealing pair of boxer shorts… well, there was only so much self-control a man could exact on himself. He remembered noticing the tip of the cock’s head peeking from inside the shorts, a long thick drip of precum sliding across the hairless flat belly and towards the navel. Was he having a wet dream? Was that what it was? Whatever the case, he knew that Natasha was in class all day, that Bobby was unconscious enough not to mind and him too damned horny to restrain himself. So, he just kneeled by the couch, intent on taking advantage of an once-in-a-lifetime kind of chance.

He rested his hand softly over the shorts’ fabric, feeling the hard contour beneath it and making sure that Bobby was dully out. One thing for sure, his sister knew how to pick them. He was extremely well endowed – lavishly so, one might say – and that was something Ilya knew how to dully appreciate. On realizing that Bobby’s steady breathing remained unaltered and deep, he neared his lips to the emerging tip and tasted the generous flow of precum. He revelled in the surprising sweetness of it and went on to take the whole head in his mouth as he pulled down the shorts by the already loose elastic waistband.

The whole thing took less than fifteen minutes and Ilya was pretty sure that there were at least two moments when, looking up at Bobby’s slumbering face, he could have sworn to have registered a curious surprised look coming from the half-closed eyelids. As if Bobby was checking out what he was doing and still pretend to be conveniently asleep. Not surprisingly, Bobby always acted as if nothing had ever happened. And, in a way, Ilya suspected that, for him, that was actually true, that he had convinced himself that it had been but a dream, something he quickly erased from his mind. For all intents and purposes, it had never happened. Therefore, what was there to tell Natasha? Nothing, right? At least, that was what Ilya made himself believe, tricking himself as Bobby had already done.

Of course, there had been that deep grunt at the end and the hard jets of thick cum flooding his throat. Ilya preferred to ignore the physical reality of it, nonetheless. For the better good, sort of speak. The truth was that he and Natasha had always been so close, joined at the hip, as they say. He did not want to risk that special bond on account of one small indiscretion. And it had been a onetime thing. When all was said and done, he simply could not bear the idea of losing her confidence. She was that important.

Natasha had always shared everything with him, no secrets or prudishness of any kind between them. Over the years, she had consistently told him all the secret wishes that she had not been able to share with Bobby. Once again, he had always been so uptight and on so many levels, that she was not sure he would understand half of her desires. There had been a mischievous smile when she admitted to Ilya how much she enjoyed anal sex – how, in that way, she was such a gay boy herself – and how desponding the fact was that Bobby rarely felt up for it. She would tease him often, sticking out and drawing back her ass, trying to entice his cock, but he would opt for her mouth instead on most occasions. Which was fun too, she conceded. She still preferred anal, though.

Ilya rejoiced in the fact that she had always been such a sexual and open-minded person. It made her for a better accomplice, one truly able to understand him and with whom he could always share everything, without fear of admonishments of any kind (well, except for the Bobby episode that never happened… that one was most definitely a big no-no). When they were still kids, she had been the one constantly challenging him for sexual plays and experiments of all sorts. And with no sense of shame or sin. It had been admitted between the two as a sort of complicity all of their own. In fact, it had been thanks to her that Ilya had found how little interest he had in girls and how much more alluring boys seemed to be. Once that happened, putting an inevitable end to their childhood’s erotic experiments, she did not chasten him, nor did she censor him his path. Instead, she made sure that Ilya could always share with her any detail about his experiences with boys, first, and with the men of his adulthood openly gay life, later on.

Ironically enough, Ilya ended up having a much more fulfilling sex life than his ever lustful sister. Bobby to blame, once again. Not that Ilya did not to try to fight such state of things in his own way. Whenever the three of them were together, Ilya made it his life’s mission to provoke Bobby. To bring down his walls of prudishness, sort of speak, always hoping that would wake him up and make him more available to Natasha’s ever unquenched thirst for experimenting. Nonetheless, and if Natasha’s reports of their sexual mores were faithful enough, Bobby had remained adamantly uptight.

In retrospect, and considering the newfound data about his sister’s now deceased husband, it made perfect sense. He had simply been an in-the-closet bastard (and a cheating one, at that). That alone could account for his uptightness and, mostly, for so much of what Natasha had imparted on him about her marriage. No wonder that she lacked in bed what Bobby apparently saved for his secret desires and clandestine incursions.

All the same, that was not reason enough for such a gruesome end. Especially taking into account how much suffering that had brought upon Natasha. For the first time in his life, Ilya had seen her lose control, breaking down to a point that seemed incongruent with everything that he had known about her. As it seemed, she loved Bobby in a much deeper way than he could have ever suspected.

He was afraid for her. For what she might do to herself, above all. And it was neither a wavering thought nor an unfounded fear. She had said as much that very morning before the funeral. She had stated it so clearly that there was no room for doubts of any kind. It had been her first thought upon waking up from the heavily sedated stupor at the hospital, on the day that she got the news: she would not be able to survive without Bobby at her side. It was only the counter-thought of Ilya – her little Ilya, as she continued to call him all through his adulthood – that stopped her from trying to find a way of ending her life, right then and there.

However, she had said with equal certainty: the moment that Ilya disappeared from her life as well, she would allow for that final solace. And Ilya was sure that she would do it, too. Natasha was not one for hysterics, drama scenes or emotional blackmail of any sort solely to draw attention to her. On the contrary. She had always been unassuming as far as her own emotions and personal troubles were concerned.

It was not a vain threat. It was not a threat at all. It was a fact, plainly and irrevocably stated. The moment that Ilya disappeared – dead or otherwise – it was a sure fact that she would put an end to her life. Quietly and without hesitation.

But, even if she had forgone such desperate thoughts for the time being, she was still suffering. She had resiliently hidden it all for the duration of the funeral, presenting a brave front to everyone. Even so, Ilya knew well what turbulences harrowed her beneath the surface. She had described it as being skinned alive and left with only the live flesh out in the open, a permanent burning feeling gnawing at her. Still, she carried herself notably. That was perhaps why he was so surprised by her reaction when that strange man that reminded him of François Sagat had appeared. She had actually smiled. What could have made her smile like that? He could not remember a time when he had seen her smile like that, in such an unprotected and surrendering way. Not even with Bobby. Not even with him, her own brother. What strange things were happening in the world these days, Ilya thought.

And, of course, there had been that stupid cop trying to cross-examine her when the service was still barely over. Natasha had told her off, though. Actually, that was what got him thinking about it. Perhaps there was something that he could do. Something that would, in some way, help clear up all that mess and give Natasha some kind of comfort. Some much needed closure.

So, there he was now. Back to his early years’ hunting grounds. What exactly did he expect to find out or accomplish he knew not. Mainly because he had chosen the exact same place where Bobby had been killed. After all, lightning never strikes the same place twice, right? And, from what he had gathered here and there, each time the killer had chosen a different location. Therefore, the chances of him coming across the sick bastard were scant. It still spared him the helplessness that had plagued him for the last couple of days, though.

He started out by walking the corridors. As it were, the rumours – that, by now, had turned into a full-blown chatter – had not been enough to scare off the clientele. Ilya wondered if it was just morbid curiosity or if people were too horny to seriously consider the risks. Or maybe they too thought that it was unlikely to happen in the same place again? Whatever the case, who knew what he could find out by merely breathing in the atmosphere, by getting a feel of the place? Perhaps he could stumble upon a lead overlooked by the police.

After rambling the corridors for a bit, he stumbled upon a closed booth in the deepest part of the cruising area, a notice stating “OUT OF SERVICE”. He knew at once that had been the one where Bobby had died. The gruesome reality of it sunk in without warning and he found himself on the verge of tears. He hurried away from it, disturbed. All of a sudden, all that he wanted was to get out of there and the sooner the possible. Something stopped him, tough. Probably the fact that he was certain he would not be able to effectively hold back the tears before reaching the street. He went inside one of the free booths and locked himself in. Only then did he cry. He just let it all out.

When he ran out of tears, there was but a quiet sobbing that faintly echoed against the walls. He looked around wistfully, finding the place oddly comforting. Almost peaceful. Maybe he would stay there for a while. Merely enjoying the isolation of it.

That was when something drew his attention. A slight and almost imperceptible movement caught by the corner of his eye. At the glory hole on his right a finger was insistently prodding the wooden edge, challenging him to come nearer. He could distinguish the suspicion of a face on the other side of the partition.

His rational mind once again told him that it could not be the killer. Be that as it may, he still felt a tingling of fright running down his spine. No, he was not sticking his dick in there. Most definitely not. The finger still probed the hole a couple more times and then withdrew. So, that had been taken care of on its own. He had just thought it, though, when the sound of a fly being unzipped and the clinging of a metal buckle came from the other side and, right afterwards, a cock slid in through the hole.

It was dark and uncommonly thick and, if his eye for measurements was still accurate, at least nine inches long.

Now that was just wrong. You could not expect a man to stand idly when chancing upon such an unexpected gift. Once again, he was not made of steel. He tricked himself into thinking that, even if there was some irrational danger in offering his cock through that hole, there could not be much harm in taking advantage of what was so willingly being offered to him. Could there?

The dilemma only troubled him for a scarce second or two. He dropped to his knees and took it all inside his mouth in one quick gulp. After all, he had been known for years for his mouth skills, most notably his ability to control his gag reflex. And he could literally suck for hours. As soon as the guy on the other side realized that as well, he started ramming it harder and deeper. He would take it all out and then thrust it all the way in again. Ilya felt the repeated piston-like movement numbing his mouth after a while, but he was not going to be the one putting an end to it. It felt too good.

When he heard his cell phone signalling an incoming text message, he merely took it out and raised it to his eyes level, not moving an inch so the guy on the other side would not feel deterred and decide to take out the cock altogether. It was from Natasha. It simply read: “The police just called. They know who the killer is. You are not going to believe it. Call me. NOW!”

He would, he thought. “Right after I finish this.” It should not take more than a few seconds more, he was sure. And, then, one of the thrusts in his mouth was not hard warm meat but a metallic cylinder that left a sour unpleasant aftertaste. That was when he heard the click. That was also the last thing that he heard.

If Ilya had had the chance to witness the splash of his own brains against the opposing wall of the booth, he would not have resisted the final punch-line of stating that the guy was most definitely a shooter.

Angel (Vivace)

On his first year of college, one of his teachers had elaborated on the importance of rituals. How they play such a significant role in establishing our sense of belonging: the notion of security we are provided by sharing procedures and gestures in common with others of our kind. It was the weight of that exact social toll that he abhorred most of all and he recalled well enough how passionately he had stated it at the time. Perhaps too passionately, as if some vital part of his soul needed urgent validation. He had learned contention in the meantime but, back then, the fires still burned strong and deep.

The teacher had attributed his passionate defence to a sort of immaturity and assured him that, with time, he would relinquish and allow himself to be seduced by the virtues of rituals. It deeply annoyed him that she had been right, even if in a very roundabout way. After all, he had remained adamant about eluding all socially imposed praxis. He could not even stand the mere thought of abying by everyone else’s rule, of complying to what was expected of him as a well-behaved member of the human race.

Yet, he had found himself constructing little routines over the years, which took him in its warm arms, protective and comforting. In a way, they were rituals too, even if he had been the one devising them, specifically designed to provide sanctuary, assuring him that in the ever moving and changing world some things still remained the same. The outdoor cafe near his first apartment to which he frequently returned, even after moving. The grocery store where he could buy that special cheese that he loved so much, even if it meant going miles out of his way to get it. Mere details, but which proved valuable in making him feel safe and whole.

Other than that, his days were usually lonely and almost undistinguishable from each other. Not that it bothered him very much. In fact, he quite preferred it that way. He had no real need for interaction with other people in order to make him feel complete. He could spend hours, days, weeks on his own. There was no special joy or sense of accomplishment in it, but there were no disturbing riffs or conflicts to stain his mood either and that was a good thing. From his past experience, whenever he fell into the temptation of allowing closeness, he surely regretted it.

People were fundamentally either crazy or plain mean. He could very well do without them.

If he was some other kind of person, maybe he could have assuredly stated that he did not know what had triggered it. Well, that was just not the case, as far as he was concerned. He remembered it well.

He had taken the day to enjoy some quiet hours in the park. He liked all the green around him and the peacefulness of the small lake filled with ducks and geese. And, even if he did not enjoy other people’s close company, the ramblings of the neighbouring families and their kids’ happy laughter made him feel somewhat comforted. He was sitting on the grass, not far from the edge of the small lake, one of the geese prowling near, curious about his presence, even if a bit dubious about his intentions. Well, his intentions were simple, he remembered thinking at the goose, he just wanted to enjoy a quiet sunny day. On the opposite bank, he could see a man in his early thirties trying to steady a bicycle, a little nervous puppy leashed to the handlebar. Inside the bike’s basket, in the front, there was a small boombox making the task harder. The puppy careened left and right, trying to avoid his master’s feet and ended up tugging the bicycle down, the boombox shattering helplessly to the grassy ground. He could not clearly hear what the man was shouting, but his actions quickly became a frame-by-frame visual tale that would be imprinted on his mind for days.

The man darted angrily at the dog, which had recoiled as far as the leash would allow, and picked him up by the nape. His free hand clutched into a tight fist as he expertly threw a hard blow to the small dog’s ribs. The hollow sound it produced carried across the lake, turning heads all around, immediately followed by the shrill yelps from the pained animal.

He jumped to his feet at once, a fire he knew well burning deep inside his gut. He started to circle the lake, steadying his furious pace, but unmistakably drawing a precise course. When he got to a few feet from the man, there was already a group of three or four shocked people surrounding him, firing admonishments and creating a clear barrier between him and the dog. He heard one of the men saying: “If I see you doing that to an animal again, I will beat you senseless, do you read me, you dumb fuck?”

The thing still went on for another twenty minutes or so, until everyone finally dispersed. Except for him. He just stood there, watching everyone getting back to their own lives. He could tell that all the rebuking and reprimands and threats had produced no real resonance in the man, as if he had just humoured the crowd by feigning repent and a change of ways. He could very clearly see it in his eyes. He had become an expert at interpreting other people’s hidden intentions and thoughts.

It was not to make sure that the puppy would not be harmed again that he lingered on. He was pretty sure that the poor animal would get it, double or triple this time, once he got home, to duly compensate for the man’s public humiliation. He could see it in the sideway glances the man threw at the cowering and whimpering puppy. When the man started walking away, guiding the wavering bicycle with the shattered boombox in the basket and the skippering puppy in tow, he merely followed them, always keeping a safe and discreet distance. He wanted to know where the man lived. That was all.

For the next few days, he became intimate with the man’s every move, with each single detail of his day-to-day life. He was married, and seemingly a loving husband at that, even if prone to such inhumane outbursts towards his pet. He appeared to lead a very unexceptional existence.

It was only on the fourth day that he saw him entering the sex-shop. He considered going in, but decided against it when weighing the extreme proximity to his subject of study that it would entail. When he realized that he had been waiting for almost an hour, he began regretting it, though, and wondered what could have been keeping him there for so long. So, when the man finally came out, instead of resuming the pursuit, he decided to check the sex-shop itself.

At first, it seemed like any other store of the kind, the endless rows of display stands and glass cases exhibiting DVDs and erotic toys of all shapes and sizes. However, on closer scrutiny he found the small corridor at the end of it, leading into an area of private video booths. That was when he realized it, at last. All of them had small round holes into the contiguous booths on each side of the partitions. Even though they could be covered at will, through a sliding wooden panel, all of them were now open.

Was that what the man had gone there for? He had heard of such things, obviously. He had even seen one at a public bathroom once, although not aware of its true purpose at first. Not until the man in the next stall took out his cock and got it nearer the open hole in the wall. Back then, in a mix of shock, disgust and fright, he had quickly filled the hole with a large wad of toilet paper. He remembered thinking how crazy and dangerous the notion was. How could people just stick their cocks through a hole, not knowing what or who was on the other side? Were they not afraid of what could happen? What if the guy on the other side was crazy? What if he decided to bite it off or something?

Yes, that had fundamentally been what had spurred the idea. He knew that, by now. And it had been a brilliant idea. At once, he understood what had to be done. He merely had to gather the courage to do it. Not the avenging act itself, but what was needed in order to achieve it. The concept of touching another man’s cock gave him no comfort whatsoever. Yet, he knew that there was no way around it, should he really want to put his mission into practice.

The next day, instead of following the man as he had done over the last few days, he went straight to the sex-shop. Chances were that the man would not go there two days in a row. Well, at least, considering what he had gathered from his routines during the course of his close surveillance. He shut himself inside one of the booths. If he was to be truly successful, he had to practice. When the time came, he wanted it to be perfect and without blemish. He did not want to be surprised by disgust or inexperience. That could simply botch everything up. Practice makes perfect, was that not what his mother had always said?

The first try-outs were hard. He would wait for someone to stick his dick through the hole and then stroke and tug at it. However, they would soon lose interest and go away. It took him some days to find the nerve to chance the next obvious step, but he eventually decided that his mission was worth it. He simply closed his eyes and slid one of them inside his mouth, fighting a gag reflex, the nausea that made him want to throw up. It paid off, nevertheless. They stayed longer, as he suspected. They usually stayed until they came, as a matter of fact. He would test different techniques, trying to understand which were most adequate, which were the ones that made them linger for a longer amount of time. As it happened, the more successful cases were the ones when he merely did it the way he wished someone would do it to him. That was, actually, what kept him through. He would imagine that he was sucking himself and that made it perversely pleasurable.

When he thought that he had at last managed to become expert enough at it, he knew that it was time for the next stage. He spent some time visiting the right places, asking about the best hunting knives for cutting through flesh and gutting animals, until he found the right tool for his trade. All that assuming that the man would want to be sucked and not the other way around. When considering the possibility, he decided that it might be wise to also carry his father’s old gun with him.

His father, the general. With all his unbending rules and cold inhuman touch. Fortunately, he had died when he was still in his early teens and had spared him the anguish that would have certainly chased him, otherwise.

He was sure that there had been a silencer to that gun as well. He just had to find it. No use taking unnecessary risks. After that was taken care of, all that he had to do was go back to his previous surveillance and wait until the man returned to the sex-shop.

The day that the man finally did would turn out to be one of the best ones in his life. More than that, it would be a moment of epiphany. He remembered the first stream of cum darting inside his mouth, making him jump to his feet, almost as if an electric discharge had just coursed through his veins. Without even thinking about it, he grabbed the cock still gushing cum, pulling it hard and drawing out the hunting knife stuck in his belt. In one swift blow – he had spent all week practicing the swing of his arm and the steadiness of his hand – he brought down the hunting knife neatly across the shaft. He saw the flow of gushing blood taking the place of cum, the dark-red overpowering the semi-translucent white. He looked at the severed cock in his hand for a while as if to a foreign surreal object and then dropped it to the floor, closing the door behind him when exiting the booth.

Before he got safely home, he knew that he would have to do it again. It was too good not to. The adrenaline rush, feeling the climax on the other side of the partition and then witnessing the burst of cum morph flawlessly into a voluptuous flow of blood, as he severed it… it was an almost religious experience, as far as he was concerned. That, he thought, was a ritual that he could get used to, if ever there had been one worthy of his dedication.

There was just one little thing, one wrapping up accomplishment, before considering the matter fully concluded. Otherwise it would merely be a selfish thing and not at all the humanitarian quest that he had envisioned from the start. He had to pay his respects to the widow. After all, the man had been a loving husband, had he not? It was a way of atonement perhaps, the final touch without which his actions would have no deep resonating meaning. Once he got that out of the way, he could move on to the next one. And a next one. And another one after that. He knew it well.

He would visit a different place each time, trying to find an adequate target. He would follow a couple of them until he found the most deserving one. One might assume that such a particular task would prove itself challenging enough. More a question of luck in finding someone truly deserving of punishment than anything else. What he ended up finding, though, was that no one was exempt of fault. He could always find some little thing that would account for his selection. So, it could pretty much be anyone. Everyone. Even if there was no other obvious peccadillo, he could always count on the fact that so many of them were married and still screwed around. And that, for him, was enough of a reason. What a sad and cynical world he lived in, he considered almost as an afterthought.

All the same, and no matter how exhilarating the kill itself felt, what he learned was that it was not until he got to face the widow that everything else fell into place.

He had discovered early in his life how charming and seductive he could be, should he decide to put his heart to it. Not in a sexual or romantic way. He could literally charm people off their feet and give them a false sense of security, even if he himself felt no empathy whatsoever towards them and their plights. Maybe it was that good boy looks of his, notwithstanding his height and bulk, sort of a modern version of the friendly giant. He simply never felt the need or will to perform such abilities. They left him cold and, without a clear utilitarian purpose, they just seemed utterly meaningless. At the funerals, however, they always proved useful. They came in handy, which was also another of his mother’s recurrent expressions.

It was vital for him to feel that the women whom he had widowed harboured him no resentment, even if they had no idea – how could they? – that he had been the one responsible for their husbands’ demise. He had considered it as a sort of final validation for his quest, the first time, and he thought it once more as he neared the dark clad blond woman, instinctively turning on his personal bright light, as he called it.

Something happened when he got within two feet of her, though. Something unexpected. He was not prone to hyperboles and, yet, he thought it safe to say that his life changed that day. That exact moment, as a matter of fact. There was a reassuring transparency to her watery blue eyes. It suddenly made him feel at peace. It was as if he had known her since ever and been suddenly surprised by her unblemished beauty at the same time. No matter how irrational it sounded to his own ears, that was exactly how he felt. Like being struck by lightning and finally finding, in the aftermath of it, his place in the world.

He stated his name, trying to steady his voice. She returned hers with a solemn countenance that begged for recognition.

Was his charm still on? He suddenly doubted that he had any control over his abilities anymore. Even though it seemed like a bold risk, he gently took her hand in both his. He was surprised by the moist warmth of it in such a chilly day. What coarse fires ran beneath her skin, he wondered. He braced himself, willing his personal light out of its apparent hiding place and allowing it to flow towards her, unbarred. Like a beacon that would guide her with steady assurance.

“That is so very kind of you”, she said. It was as if she was referring to the warm embrace of his personal light, even if he knew perfectly well that she was merely giving answer to his condolences. Confident that he had not lost his touch after all, he allowed his face to open into a bright smile. He knew well enough how she would mentally characterize that smile. The same way that everyone else usually did. The childlike smile. The smile of the friendly giant.

And, then, he realized it with the full force of an undeniable certainty. She would be his. She would belong to him. She had been meant for him alone and all his life, all of his steps, had been designed to bring her closer. Even the rituals that he had stumbled upon had been but mere stages in a passion that led his path towards her. To finally find her. And, notwithstanding all of his rediscovered certainties, it was not until her own bright smile burst in his direction that he took in the whole significance of it. She too had been waiting for him (and willing, as it seemed). From that moment on, he knew exactly what was expected of him.

He merely had to do it one last time. One last ritual. So that he could break paths with it and be free to surrender to her, unrestrained. Only, this time, he would not choose. He would not research guilts and faults. He would simply go there, close himself inside one of booths and take advantage of the first lamb that offered himself to sacrifice. It seemed appropriate. One last truly god-like gesture that bestowed itself upon divine chance. And to make it even more so, to ensure that whatever destiny was installed for him, it was one approved by the heavens, he would go back to the same place where he had killed her husband, instead of choosing a new venue. That would be the final dare from which he would escape unblemished, sanctioned by the gods above and leading him to the bright future that he could already foresee.

So, after leaving the funeral, he would head home – eagerly anticipating what was to follow – in order to pick up the hunting knife and his father’s gun, not forgetting the silencer (no use daring the devil, too, along with god, right?). Only then would he be ready for the rest of his life. By her side, it promised to be a never-ending reign of bliss.

When his steps started leading him away from the cemetery, he could not stop wondering what would her lips taste like and, most of all, what it would feel like to finally surrender his body to a deserving bride. The thought alone was enough to make his smile grow brighter and his cock instantly rock hard.