Subway, or roast chicken, or something with gravy...
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He looks so beautiful when he's screaming, as beautiful as I thought he would. I can't stop thinking it, every time he shuts up long enough to draw in another breath I almost pass out, every time he opens that pretty mouth again it's nearly an orgasm. I want to make him scream over and over again, just to be able to look at him.
The great thing, of course, is that I can. And I will. Over and over, until his throat is so hoarse that he can't make any sound but faint, tortured rasping noises. Further still, until he's pushed into unconsciousness by it. I don't have to stop, not as long as he's breathing. I can make him suffer. It's only fair, really.
I mean, it's not like he hasn't made ME suffer.
His eyes are red, bloodshot already. He keeps looking at me and flinching, trying to look somewhere else, anywhere else. Trying to sink, to get that distant, almost glazed expression he gets when his head is somewhere else. He used to be able to do it easily, but... well, not this time. Not through this much hell. The little wires are taped down nice and tight, and he's bound enough that he can't struggle, can't pull them off. All he can do is watch me as I reach for the little switchboard again.
I had to use one of my special gags to get his mouth open, and it's a good thing the surgical tape sticks as well as it does to flesh, or the wire attached to his tongue wouldn't stay put very well. I warned him after the first time he managed to work it off that if he did it again I'd pierce his tongue, thread it through, and twist it into place. The second time I actually had to get the vicegrip out and start heating a needle before he begged me not to, promised he wouldn't push it off again.
He's managed pretty well, actually. After that second time he has indeed kept the wire in his mouth, and none of the others have come unattached at all. Even the ones I had to knock him unconscious to insert are still in place, though gods know he's tried to get them out. Not gonna happen, though. Particularly not when I take so much pleasure in watching his eyes widen when the spark runs straight down through his cock and up nearly to the base of his spine - it's like he's suddenly lit on fire, he screams that loudly, every time.
The plug, of course, was a lot easier to set up - six wires attached to a rubber plug, stripped bare along their length, and the plug inserted nice and deep. I can send the current running around them, one after the other, in a little circle of whitehot pain that at this point is pretty much certain to scar. I know he's got blisters where the wires emerge and I'm sure he's got more, deeper inside. Likely the same in his ears; I've only set those off occasionally though, I don't want him going deaf.
Not yet. I want him able to hear his own screams and to hear me tell him, over and over, just what I think of him. I want him to know how much I hate him, how long I've been planning this, how carefully I set it all up.
How many people I've tested it on.
Oh, that really got him, when I first mentioned it. The fact that he wasn't even the first one I'd used this on, and that it'd be a shame to waste it by tossing it when I was done with him. After all, it's so useful. I could see him staring at the stains on the concrete and wondering how many people it took to get that much blood in that many places. He hates me now too, of course, he stares at me and I think between shocks he fantasizes about killing me. Doesn't matter; he won't be going anywhere. I'm going to keep this up until his heart gives out or his brain shuts down.
I want him to die at my hands. I want him to know that someone he tormented is responsible for his death. I want him to understand that if he hadn't hurt me first, this wouldn't be happening.
He cries when I say that. For a while he tried promising never to hurt anyone ever again, apologised, begged to be let free to make it up to me. I told him he was making it up to me... and to gods know how many others he's hurt. And that I wasn't going to let him go. That he'd die there, covered in blood and sweat and his own piss, dazed from the pain, unable by the time I'm done to even remember his name, everything forgotten but how much it hurts...
...and that somehow, it's his fault that he is here. I'm going to make sure when he dies, his last thought will be that he deserved it. I want him to go to the afterlife suffering. I want him to be reborn still flinching every time someone turns on a lightswitch. I want him to have echoes of this following him into every other lifetime he lives. I want him to SUFFER, do you understand, because he made me suffer.
I want revenge. And I'm getting it. And gods, it's beautiful.
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