Bob’s first words.
Roger was surprised it had taken him this long to ask what was going on but he suspected that Bob knew precisely what was happening – that his chickens had finally come home to roost, his crimes coming back to bite him in the ass.
Roger said nothing – although, it was more difficult than he imagined – resisting the urge to tell Bob that he knew all about his sick perversions and the atrocities he had committed; but he bit his tongue and stuck to the plan.
Bob’s genitals were dangling over the end of the table, exposed and vulnerable. Despite his hatred for the man, Roger couldn’t help but be a little envious of his endowment: his scrotum sagged a good six inches, weighed down by a pair of balls that wouldn’t look out of place on a tennis court and his circumcised penis, even in its flaccid state would give Roger a run for his money at his most engorged.
Mother Nature was a cruel bitch, he thought – why waste tackle like that on a hideous creature like Bob? But then again, back in caveman days, long before trans-fatty acids, processed sugar and takeaways, Bob would not have been the bloated specimen he was now – fit, toned and naked with his appendage swinging as he walked, he may well have been the alpha male – with his pick of the females. And with no concept of romantic lovemaking - just animal-like rutting – he would have been in his element.
Perhaps Bob was just a victim of modern food trends and 21st century social niceties?
As if sensing a potentially sympathetic swing, the voices again filled his head while unseen hands tugged forcefully at his innards. Roger dropped the lighter as he was forced to his knees, visions of the suffering that Bob had inflicted filling his inner eye and burning at his nerve endings. Sweat sheathed his skin as any sympathy towards his victim was instantly banished through his soaking pores, and, job done, the voices faded as the pain in his gut withered away.
He picked up the lighter from the stained lino on the kitchen floor and flicked it back to life as he rose to his feet.
Bob strained, lifting his head to see what his captor was doing. His eyes widened with fear, lips quivering as he watched Roger slowly lower the lighter towards his naked genitals.
Roger held the flame beneath Bob’s unsheathed glans, watching with glee as the heat quickly reddened the flesh, Bob’s screams echoing around the kitchen. Roger’s grin grew wider at the sounds of his victim’s agony and the sight of his limbs thrashing in their secure bonds - and he was suddenly aware that this was a pleasure shared as the voices in his head returned, gratitude radiating from the mashed up melee of words, his own penis filling with blood, throbbing harder than he could ever recall, the nerves in that sensitive organ registering the sensations of being someplace welcoming, warm and wet: his encouragement, his reward…
Roger waved the burning lighter around, ensuring every bit of Bob’s exposed glans felt its heat. The volume of the voices in his head rose and his penis swelled with pleasure as the bright orange flame ate at the opening of the fat fucker’s urethra, the unblinking eye weeping a tear of yellow pus as the flame burned deep into flesh.
The heat of the lighter’s flame was starting to burn Roger’s fingers and he was finally forced to release the switch, shutting off the gas.
Bob’s screams died to whimpers along with the flame and, as his seared penis oozed pus and other fluids onto the filthy floor, Roger took the pan of boiling water from the hob and held it beneath Bob’s scrotum, slowly raising it until the saggy sack skimmed the bubbling surface.
The room once again echoed to screams of agony and Roger lowered the pan. Bob’s face had turned pale and clammy, sweat dripping from his forehead as he tried to bear the pain. Roger grinned at him then raised the pan higher, fully submerging his victim’s testicles in the boiling liquid.
Bob’s body bucked and jumped on the table, almost lifting his scrotum out of the water and splashing the scalding fluid onto his tormentor’s hand.
Roger hissed through his teeth and quickly replaced the pan on the lit hob. After searching around, he retrieved the piece of the gate from the floor and worked at the exposed nail - twisting, tugging and wiggling until it finally broke free of the wood. He held the rusty piece of iron aloft for a second like some kind of trophy before pressing its corroded but still lethal point against the skin at the top of Bob’s ball-sack. Using the piece of wood as a hammer, he pounded the nail through the flesh and into the table, holding the wayward scrotum firmly in place.
Discarding the piece of broken gate, he retrieved the pan from the stove, the water back up to boiling point and plunged Bob’s testicles into the steaming bubbles. His victim screamed and cursed, twisting his head from side to side as his bloated body bucked and bounced on the table to no avail – his nailed scrotum remaining fully submerged in the scalding water.
Roger held the pan in place for several minutes, watching as the coils and tubes inside Bob’s scrotum visibly undulated with the heat, writhing like a sack of frenzied snakes. Only when the water had stilled, its boiling heat dissipated did Roger remove the pan, placing it back onto the hob.
Searching through Bob’s kitchen drawers, Roger found what he was looking for – a pair of scissors. He opened the handles – the blades were dirty and scraped against each other but he was satisfied they would be up to the job. A stack of dirty
