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Not a Confession

This is not a confession.

This is not a cry for help.

Do not think that by writing this, I am somehow sorry for what I've done. Do not think that by reading this, you could possibly understand me.

There is a reason why people fear the darkness, why we tell tales of demons in the night and forces beyond science and comprehension. A small part of this is the adopted use of fear as a control mechanism. The larger part, the real source of your hates and fears, is down to those like myself. I am the stuff of your nightmares, and I know enough to say that I am but one of many.

'Who am I to make such a claim', is the question no doubt unconsciously broiling it's way between the lax synapses that govern your ineffecient and irrelevant thoughts. Well, are you sitting comfortably? If so, then I'll begin. But I warn you, if you shock easily, then you may want to stop reading now, go about your business and forget this web page ever existed.

Let me start by saying that I was once a normal human being. Mommy and Daddy never locked me in cupboards or abused me in any way, and my life was ordinary and nondescript enough to avoid with ease all the other typical cliches that might try to explain my future actions. I did reasonbly well academically, and struggled through the business end of university solely due to the fact that I enjoyed the social side of the experience so much. But I got there in the end.

In fact, I was ordinary enough that when I first started to feel urges which at the time I considered... indecent, I was shocked that such things were even entering my head. Random musings of bestiality, necrophilia, rape and perversions modern society likely still struggles to name accurately. As any good meek citizen does, I blocked out these thoughts where possible, and did everything I could to ignore them otherwise. It never even entered my head to act on these things. But try as might, the thoughts kept coming, and with time, they became more vivid, more explicit. More tempting.

There came a point where the thoughts were occuring with such regularity, that my mind began to turn from being utterly offended by its contents. Exposure to brutal sex acts I could never have conceived myself on such a regular basis eventually made it seem almost normal. It was when I stopped hating myself for thinking these things that the changes really started to happen. However, given my integration with society, and still thinking myself an unacceptable freak, I was - pleasantly - surprised to find that the internet provided an initial outlet for my growing frustration.

Every perversion ever dreamed of could be found with relative ease, and I soon found myself spending an increasing amount of time masturbating to material that you would likely find nauseating and offensive. Material that is frowned upon, much that is outlawed here and there, some which outright illegal anywhere you go. But this was not really a release. The greater my exposure to the depravity available to me online, the more I wanted, not just to see it, but to be actively involved. Oh, the alarm bells were ringing loud and clear. I was turning into a sexual psychotic, and as my thoughts began to turn to stalking lonely women on dark streets, some small part of me, probably whatever was left of my morality (which, on reflection, had never been an overwhelming part of my personality), was initially outraged, and a struggle for control of my sanity ensued. The physical ecstacy of two parts of your brain fighting for dominance is quite a wonder to behold, and I recommend it. The conflict boiled my blood, enraged and empowered me, and built up a range of emotions I'd never felt before. Feelings I've little doubt you ever have - or will - experience yourself.

By the time the little voice of normality had disappeared, I was almost desperate to act on the brutal needs flowing through my veins. The outlet for this, whose name I later deliberately bore into my head, was a slip of a girl probably no older than 17 years old. Now, I'm sure Sarah Anne Jessop's mother told her not to walk alone at night, not to talk to strangers and a dozen other rules that are there for your own safety. This sweet little honey ignored pretty much all of them. I'll spare you the gory details for now, but let me say that the release I felt was like a supreme sexual epiphany and an ascension to a higher state of self all rolled into one. After exercising more than two dozen ways violate and depravate her body and desecrate her flesh, I left her bloodied and torn, and I heard later that she did not survive what I now consider the loss of my virginity. This saddened me, and upsets me still, but only from the perspective that there were to be no witnesses to the magnificence of the occasion.

I'm not entirely sure what I expected to happen after that night. Maybe a part of me thought I was exorcising a demon inside me, which would never resurface, but ultimately what happened was the proverbial echo across the mountain that set off an avalanche. The disappointment over Sarah Anne dying drove me like madness. Time and again I committed crimes so utterly depraved and what you might term despicable.

A little over a month ago was the last time. For a while, I had taken to ensuring the presence of a witness by simply making sure a second person was present, usually bound and simply forced to watch my mastery at work. But I came to realise that this allowed a level of freedom which was ultimately leading to a personal disappointment in the resuts of my work. But redemption was at hand, and not for the first time, the internet came riding galantly to my rescue. Via use of an online chatroom, I found Jessica White. Struggling to pay for a flat she was renting after moving out to get away from her parent's constant bickering, she was in need of a friend. Fortunately for both of us, she found me.

I remember vividly the physical magnificence of her. The look of incredulous horror that stretched her features as I began to work on her made her look more incredibly beautiful than anything I've ever seen. Never before had I gone into so much detail, violating her in so many ways, yet reluctant to do anything to destroy the heart-touching perfection of her supremely formed body. For hours I made her the object of my dreams, and I was in complete ecstacy.

We shared the most incredible moment. As the night wore on, we made eye contact, and through the dilation of her pupils I was honoured to watch her sanity slip away like mist. It was a moment of truth. The deliquescence of her very soul. It was perfect. I felt an apotheosis come over me, a peak, a climax of unparallelled splendor. We were both of us changed. She had become forever the silent witness of my supremacy, and I had become more than human. So much more.

And yet for a month I have done nothing. You might contemplate briefly that my needs have been satisfied, through the peak of my magnificence. But that would make this story something it is not.

Understand that this is not a confession.

This is not a confession. Instead, it is my new way to find the objects of my depravity. When you opened this page, it silently recorded your IP address, service provider and rough location. By the time you've read this far, chances are I know where you live. Don't worry though, I'm not coming to get you just yet. You see, as I said, I am not alone. I have discovered recently that there are a great many people like me, and we all need to satisfy our varying needs. So I'm putting your details on file for a few weeks until enough people have read this for a single night of sheer indulgence.

Sleep well.






*Disclaimer - I'm not a psycho, sexual pervert in any way IT'S A STORY.

IB



1 message(s) of denial

Venus - 2006-08-06 05:23:30

*smiles* I have little to say other than, intrigued.

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Copyright Insane Bartender 2006-06-30 9:25 a.m.

e-mail me: Insane Bartender