I’m back. Damn telephone. People calling to ask how my mom and I are doing, as if they really care. We oughtta have the thing disconnected.
Anyway, I GOT TO SEE THEM! It must have been how those astronauts felt at the moon landing. One small step for man, one giant leap for sexual sadism. You go in the house, through the den to the kitchen, and that’s where the door to the basement is. I made Owens go first, because I didn’t want him to a) push me down the stairs, b) lock me up down there with the women, or c) both. Not that “B” wasn’t without its prospects, but I’d only accomplish half of my goals. More on that later.
So we went down there, and of course it’s just like the pictures, for the most part. The basement walls are stone, and Owens has the shackles driven into them. You aren’t breaking away from those unless you come from the planet Krypton. There were also some empty shackles for future acquisitions. And speaking of acquisitions, there, from left to right, were the pretty little schoolgirls and co-eds all in a row. Alphabetical order, too. I thought it was a coincidence, but he consciously lined them up that way. It seems like a pointless risk to me if he has to trade out shackles, but Owens is a bit weird.
The girls are chained with their arms overhead, which makes their breasts rise up. I sound like
It was all on display! Four downy clefts, eight TITTIES, and four sets of ass. Hours and hours of fist-pumping action if you just happened to sit next to them during a study hall, but in a place like this where you can blur the line between daydream and reality, the possibilities were downright exhausting.
I HAD thought about being a “law-abiding citizen” and calling the police when I first saw the pictures. If anyone ever reads this, I want to go on record as saying I considered it. But when I weighed the pros and cons, doing the “right thing” seemed like a real cop-out. Think about it. Let’s say I reported the pictures to the proper authorities and they stormed the house, saving the women and arresting Carl Owens. Would I even get so much as a thank-you card from three of those women? It’s doubtful. After all the psychiatric treatment for their “ordeal” and their “post-traumatic stress disorder,” they’d either go on with their lives and purposely leave any reminders of the experience way behind them, or they’d try to cash in on their “tribulations.” The bottom line came down to “Will good ol’ Alex get some ass in return for his heroic benevolence?” and the answer was always “Not bloody likely.” What WHORES! Some gratitude, huh?
So yeah, I may look like the bad guy, but it was worth it for the steamy thirty seconds I spent with Jenny alone. I’d thought about doing this with her for some time. You’ve never seen such a struggle before in your life, either. I bet she didn’t put up half the fight when Owens came to collect his just reward. All that squirming and whimpering, you’d think Helen Keller’s mom set her down on a hot stove. I have to admit, if half those thirty seconds weren’t spent restraining her gyrations so I could even get it in her, it would have been over that much faster. I made sure to get in a couple squeezes of her TITS after I blasted off in her, because I forgot to do it in all the excitement. Nice and firm, fit right in the palm of my hand.
I didn’t even care that Owens was watching (and he looked at me distastefully, if you can believe that . . . what a hypocrite!). I should have been more worried that he’d try something, I guess, but I’d offered to develop film in his house, and having found out how close he came to discovery, he liked the sound of that.
I wonder exactly what he would have said if someone else developed his film and called him on the carpet. I suppose he could have said it was just a make believe thing, and hey, I swear they were all over 18! Nothin’ weird here, good sir. If no one recognized the girls, he might have even skated on that, at least for awhile. The pressure cooker hadn’t exploded just yet with no actual bodies. A lot of people figured the girls just ran away and were shooting up dope and sucking dicks—believe me, I’ve heard the ugliest theories—while the rest whispered that the Slave Killer guy from twenty-five years ago was back.
For the record, I
I’m sure it pained Carl to have to share the girls, but the guy was so spoiled anyway. He inherited the house from his mommy, didn’t have to work for anything. I’m busting my ass for minimum wage, and he’s out joyriding, chloroforming flawless college girls for an orgasmathon. Pretty unfair, if you ask me.
My hand’s about to fall off from reliving this great experience . . . and I’m getting tired of writing, too. More tomorrow.
Oh, I said there were a couple differences from the pictures yesterday, didn’t I? It turns out Mr. Holier- Than-Thou can’t abide by the cost of feeding the girls, so he improvises. Chunks of flesh are now missing here and there from thighs and stomachs (
That was hardly enough to sustain them and keep them from looking like refugees from Auschwitz, though. It turns out there was a FIFTH girl, but she wasn’t local. Owens picked her up hitchhiking (they never learn, do they?). It probably got the whole thing started, such an opportunity falling into his lap. This is, in fact, how he figured out the high cost of living (as in keeping a sex slave alive), because he had to start buying for two. Then three, because he had to grab Cassandra Bittaker. Why do that if he can barely afford to keep one? Because he HAD to grab Cassandra Bittaker. Check back issues of the newspaper for her picture, and you’ll understand immediately. After some soul-searching (and coming up empty), Owens gave the hitchhiker one more for the road, then slit her throat from ear to ear. A good strategy move, when you think about it—Cassandra Bittaker sees just how valuable she is from his perspective.
Frugal as he is, Owens didn’t have a very big crisper. The fifth girl couldn’t possibly fit. One hacksaw and three hours later, though, Owens did the impossible. Now he had plenty of meat to keep the livestock fed awhile. He’s crafty, I’ll give him that much. It couldn’t last, though, especially when he kept bringing in more girls.
I made him swear not to carve on Jenny. I’ll feed her myself, if need be.
Today I got the privilege of doing the carving for the others, though. A few strips from Aurora’s arms. I whittled all the skin from Mariangela’s toes (which contributed little, but the reaction was worth it). The soles of Cassandra’s feet, to prevent visible scarring. That was something! Peeled off like the skin of a potato. More bones in the human foot than you’d think. We’re going to need a new knife.
Did the deed with Cassandra and Mariangela today, savoring the coming fun with Jenny. Went off like gangbusters in Cassandra almost on contact, but held out for five glorious minutes with Mariangela. Still haven’t managed a bee-jay because of the duct tape over all their mouths, which seems unnatural (my not getting a bee- jay, I mean, not the duct tape). The pictures in the paper of Mariangela showed some of the most pouty lips imaginable. Not Geisha Hammond worthy, but they promised a soft landing. Friends and family claimed she wasn’t taken without a struggle, because she’s a tough one. I take that to mean she’d bite a man off given half the chance. It sure wouldn’t be worth it to take the chance of those teeth.
So we’re gonna need pliers.
The political correctness of the papers is hilarious, and actually quite dangerous. Hilary Stiglitz is the fifth (known) disappearance in the past three months. Police do not want to attribute her vanishing to the same person or persons responsible for the first four, but they won’t reveal why. “We have some leads we’re working on,” claimed Detective Keene.
