Because this man is exactly what I need.
No, he's more than that.
Ryan Adamson is exactly what Iwant.
Chapter 12
Caleb
Three kills stand out in my memory.
Three kills that remind me exactly what I am.
Three memories that still get me so hard, there's no fucking way I can't jerk off when I think about them.
Case number 5. The twenty-three year old tech billionaire. Venture capital golden boy with a seed-stage portfolio worth nine figures.
Thirty-seven women in six months.
He didn't rape them. Didn't need to. Money bought consent until it didn't, and then his hands were around their throats while he fucked them and they stopped breathing.
I found him in Dubai. Extradited him through channels that don't officially exist.
Chained his hands to his feet—proper hog-tie configuration, stainless steel, no slack. Positioned him so his cock wasright there. Close enough to taste if he bent far enough.
"Two hours," I told him. "Suck your own dick for two hours, and I'll consider letting you live."
He cried. Begged. Tried to negotiate.
I waited.
He wrapped his lips around his own cock after fifteen minutes of crying like a baby. Desperation makes men flexible in ways anatomy shouldn't allow. I remember the exact way his spine curved. The groans and whimpers from the strain to keep the tip of his dick in his mouth.
I pull out my cock, it's already thick and pulsing. Can't help it. Just the memory makes my hand wrap around my shaft, pre-come already slicking the head when I swipe my thumb over it.
I jerked off that day too. Pumping my fist up and down my shaft while I watched him work. His technique wasterrible—all teeth and panic—but he managed. For thirty-seven minutes he managed.
Then I walked over and sawed through the base of his cock with a hunting knife.
The blood fountained. Poured down his throat as he choked on his own severed dick.
He drowned in himself.
My hand moves faster now, thumb circling the ridge as I remember the sound he made—wet and gurgling andfinaland shift into the image of the second kill that still makes me hard.
Case number twenty-four. A British woman. Thirty-seven. Opened a boarding school in rural Uganda for "talented young boys."
Talent meant pretty. Meant vulnerable. Meant no one would notice when they disappeared into her private quarters for "special tutoring sessions."
Sixteen confirmed deaths. She killed them after. Afraid of witnesses? Afraid of herself is more likely.
I flew her to Story Island. Told her it was a donor retreat. She believed me because people like her always believe their money makes them untouchable.
The fuck machine was industrial. Pneumatic piston system, variable speed control, custom twelve-inch attachment I had fabricated specifically for her.
I strapped her down spread eagle. Wrists, ankles, waist, throat. Positioned the machine. Turned it on.
Forty-eight hours.
