... second letter..

I wonder how accurately Moses describes the psychotic serial killer's mind. It seems frighteningly real. In case you're worried that you might become a serial killer, psychologists who study them tell us that if you haven't killed by the age of eighteen, you won't become a serial killer. Don't worry. Just get your frustrations out kathartically.
Dear Sir,  

I got another one of those letters -- from that kook who threatened me. Like before, it was setting on my desk. But think he's paying someone in my office to deliver it, especially from what he says in the first paragraph. If that's the case, then he could be anywhere -- even out of the country. I still think it's the guy who was my friend's American lover. But I can't be sure. 

... Moses Philstein


WARNING: the following story describes unsafe practices, including oral and anal intercourse. Anal intercourse is especially dangerous and should never be done -- with or without a condom. Felatio may transmit amoebal diseases.

22 July, 2009
You printed my first letter. You see, I have kept up the subscription of my ex-lover, the one who introduced me to your magazine. That might narrow it down a bit, but this letter will be mailed far away from the first. I do not think the publisher will risk his reputation, and readership, by giving the names of all of your members to the police, just to try to locate me. I promised to tell you more, so here we go.

Nowadays I almost always use a 0.38 pistol to kill my lovers, I mentioned that in my letter. That has not always been the case and before settling on the gun, with only one bullet in case I am overpowered by my lover, I tried several other methods.

One particularly memorable occasion was during my second year of my new found activity. I had picked up a hitch hiker on the interstate and he turned out to be a runaway -- from a juvenile home. He had just reached his eighteenth birthday and escaped rather than be transferred to an adult facility. His name was Albert, but he liked to be called Bert.

He did not tell me his story immediately, of course. We had driven for three hours or so and I had established that he had no specific destination in mind -- just "towards" California. So he seemed an ideal target for me.

This was my third day of my second vacation that year. Until then I had been unsuccessful. I was far more wary then, always imagining that I was being watched -- that each potential lover was a policeman or FBI plant.

Anyway, Bert was the eighth young man I had made contact with that vacation, and now I knew I had the right one. The others were either likely to be missed, or made it very clear that they were anti-homosexual, or there was some other reason why they were unsuitable for my purposes. Bert, on the other hand, was admirably suitable.

We pulled up at a small roadside diner to eat. Bert had no money, naturally, and was not at all reluctant to accept my charity. He ate up and opened up to me. He was getting relaxed and friendly.

I keep a few homosexual magazines in the Bronco -- it's not the Bronco any more, but I'm not about to tell you what 4X4 I drive these days. If I feel that I have met a potential, I find a way to allow him to see the magazines. Sometimes, if I have judged wrong, the guy might go berserk, or utter homophobic epithets -- that had already happened twice a couple days ago. Generally, especially now that I have a lot more experience, the young man takes an interest in the pictures, and I make a point of looking for the tell tale jilt in the kilt. Bert had seen the magazines and had shown more than a passing interest.

During the meal I told Bert that he was welcome to tag along with me for a couple of days, but that I would be camping. He would be expected to help about the camp in return for food and shelter. I always make the point that I have one tent, and one double size sleeping bag. Most of them understand at once, that helping around the camp will include nighttime services.

Bert eagerly accepted my offer, and told me frankly that he had been a homosexual for many years and was a regular lover to guards, and other inmates, in the juvenile home.

I never, ever, go with any young man under the age of eight- een, normally I prefer them nineteen to twenty three. In this age group they still have great bodies, and they have experience I'm just too old to be a sex teacher.

Bert just fitted into my age category and it was abundantly clear that he had lots of sex experience. We left the diner and thirty minutes later I turned off the interstate and headed towards a deserted camp site I had discovered on my previous visit to the area. The sun was setting when I saw the track lead- ing down towards the river, and a few minutes later I pulled up at the site.

Bert set about helping me make camp with a happy enthusiasm. Less than an hour later the tent was pitched, the utensils on parade, and we had bathed, naked, in the river.

We sat on the blanket, drying off before the camp fire, and Bert told me the rest of his story.

Bert was big and muscular. I noticed his strength as he effortlessly toted the tent and accessories out of the 4X4. I asked him about it and he said he did a lot of working out. Besides, he said, they worked him hard, trying to break him -- they even had a garden where they grew vegies for the home.

I decided to stay at the camp for a couple of extra days so that I could get to know the young man better, and then formulate the method of his death.

I was not disappointed in Bert's performances that first night, nor the subsequent performances the following day several times, and the next night. The young man was a veritable sex machine. His body writhed, pitched, and tossed, and his erection never seemed to fade. And his regular ejaculations were copious. Bert was one of those lucky people with a hyper sensitive prostate gland, and the slightest touch, by finger or penis, generated an enthusiasm that was indescribable.

My planned two days stretched to four, and I was thinking about taking Bert back home with me. But the urge to kill over- came my animal sex lust and I began my preparations.

As I said before, these were my early days. I still had a lot to learn. I decided that I would strangle Bert, using a thin cord. After we made love in the sleeping bag, I pretended to sleep. When I was sure that Bert was asleep, I slipped the cord around his neck and twisted it around a wooden stick. My plan was to twist the stick while I fucked Bert and climax at the moment of death.

Well, that was the plan.

Without waking Bert, I Rolled him onto his stomach. I en- tered him and started fucking him while he was still asleep. At the same time I twisted the cord so that his breath began to rasp into the pillow. My rhythm became harder, faster, as I was over- come with desire.

Suddenly, Bert awoke. He struggled, trying to throw me off him. The movement only served to increase my urge and I twisted the cord tighter, pushing Bert's face down into the pillow with all my strength. But my strength was very nearly not enough. Bert bucked like a horse and I slipped out of him. He tried to get up, then to roll over, but by then I had twisted the cord so tight he could not breathe.

Still Bert fought. I know that if I had not started to strangle him while he was still sleeping, and therefore weakened him, Bert would have got the better of me. I was raging with lust and as Bert's movements subsided I reentered him and pumped his hole for all I was worth.

I felt him struggling still, albeit very weakly, when I shot my load deep up into his bowels, but I kept a firm grip on the cord and did not let go until I was certain that Bert was dead.

One ironic thing -- I noticed when I rolled the body onto his back that Bert had ejaculated. I mentioned before about his hyper sensitive prostate, so it might have happened at any time while I was massaging it with my erect member. But I like to be- lieve that Bert spilled his last seed in synchronism with his final breath.

Bert taught me a lesson. If the intended victim is stronger, bigger or fitter -- if he has any physical advantage over me, I am doubly sure that there will be no struggling that I cannot overcome. Sometimes I tie my lover up, or manacle him, while he is asleep. I used knock out drugs once or twice, but that takes the fun away as he does not enjoy his final climax together with me. No, I have found that making sure that he is unable to resist by the use of physical restraint is the most reliable.

But, mind you, I had another close call before I adopted that safety measure. His name was Tom.

I was camping in the dunes on a desolate stretch of the coast. This was the year after Bert -- my third. I had taken two lovers that year already. They were buried in adjacent graves on the Grimbles' land. I had them two weeks apart and nobody even saw me bring them to the camp. It was unusual to get hitch hikers in that vicinity, only locals on their way to or from home or work. But that year I had picked up two, within yards of the same spot.

Anyway, I digress. I had taken a rest and had been at the ocean side camp site for almost a week when I heard the roar of a motorcycle and this long haired young guy leaped over the dunes on his bike, spraying me with sand. I was angry, and was ready to give him a severe telling off if I got hold of him. He spun to a stop on the beach, dropped his bike onto the sand and walked towards me. He smiled -- a magic, angelic smile. So before I could lay into him he was apologizing so profusely that I began to feel guilty. Well, to cut a long story just a little shorter, Tom stayed. Permanently.

Tom had run away from home, a farm in the mid west. He only had a few dollars and his motorcycle. That had been over a year before and he had made no contact with his parents after that. It seemed that he was always being beaten and sexually abused by his father who would tie him up in the barn and lay into him with a leather riding crop.

Ironically, this had turned Tom on to S/M, but not with his father. Of course, his mother knew nothing about her husband's treatment of their son.

Tom traveled from place to place doing odd jobs, stealing a little here and there -- he was very candid about that. All his possessions were lashed to the back of his bike -- a few clothes, a sleeping bag, a small waterproof cover, a box of sex tools and some utensils.

Naturally I invited Tom to stay with me. The old one tent, one double sleeping bag was rolling from me quite glibly by now, but in any case it was totally unnecessary with Tom. He had told me in our very first conversation that he was gay, and he clearly had no qualms about developing a sexual relationship with me.

The farmboy background and a year on the road had made a very tough young man out of Tom, who was twenty. He had a firmly muscled, well proportioned body -- tanned all over, I soon discovered. Tom was a superb swimmer and very athletic. -- After Bert I should have been extra careful.

Tom and I spent several idyllic days together -- naked as the day we were born, most of the time. Tom was athletic sexually too -- and his gyrations, the way he could fold his body into the weirdest positions for me to enter him, kept my lust satisfied for that much time.

Soon, though, the lust for the final climax overpowered me and I began to plan. Tom had taught me about S/M, his version. He really got off by being tied up and being whipped or slapped. He liked to be fucked while he was in bondage. And he especially liked it when I tied his cock and balls really tight and secured them to crocodile clips on his nipples. He would tease me, goading me into punishing him, and there is no doubt at all that his erection was never stronger than when I laid the belt into him.

I had not thought to use this to my advantage -- I really don't know why. My choice of method was back to the old faithful -- the knife. While Tom was frolicking around in the sea, I hid the knife under the tent flap, right next to the sleeping bag. After dinner we made love several times under the stars on the blanket. I feigned tiredness and persuaded Tom to turn in. He, of course, was almost insatiable and wanted more. I had not belted him since lunchtime and he felt the need to be punished. Funnily enough, looking back on it that was probably what saved me.

I pretended to go to sleep, not before Tom's teasing tongue had milked two orgasms from me under protest and I had delivered ten very hefty whacks to his already bruised buttocks. Tom, reluctantly demurred and soon his regular breathing indicated that he had drifted off. I slipped down his body and sucked his penis to erection, licking his scrotum in a way that I had learned really turned him on. He writhed in his sleep and his manhood was well towards attention when I pulled myself back up and folded Tom's legs onto my shoulders. I pumped inside him while masturbating his phallus with my left hand.

The plan was to bring him to an imminent orgasm while he slept and wake him so that as he began to become aware of what was going on, and to enjoy his climax, I would plunge the knife into his heart. By the time he had realized what had happened it would be too late and he would be too weak to put up any kind of fight.

Well, all was going according to plan when Tom stirred and his eyes fluttered open. He smiled when he realized that I was making love to him and immediately set up his own rhythm in time with my own. This caught me a little unawares as he almost sucked the semen from me with his undulating asshole.

I pumped Tom's member harder, and bent forward to kiss him. Tom moaned in pleasure and tensed as the climax approached. I got the knife and as I ejaculated inside his rectum and he spilt himself over my pumping hand, I went to stab him with my knife.

He had become so aroused by our sex, though, that he bucked up and the knife just grazed him. He felt the blade and looked down. I stabbed again and he tried to fend me off. I roared at him "Take your punishment, no more protests". Tom froze and just lay back while I plunged the knife into his chest.

Then Tom's awareness was revived and he started crying. I was still inside him, hardening again, his legs on my shoulders. I bent forward and kissed him. I whispered in his ear that I had to punish him for his beauty and talent, and that I would not let him die. It was just a lesson. He seemed not to know that the blade had pierced his heart, and he returned my kiss until he faded away into unconsciousness fifteen minutes later.

During that time I was able to climax twice, and even coaxed another orgasm from Tom before he fainted. After he died I kept fucking his inert body until, eventually, I was satisfied again. For the time being.

It was my habit by then always to sleep with my dead lover. I rarely miss that delight. During the night I was able to enter Tom four more times, then in the morning I urinated inside his rectum immediately after ejaculating in there. As with almost all of my ex-lovers, the act of death had released the body's control of its functions and so there was urine and feces to be cleaned up.

Those fluids are very much part of the sensation of the love-death. far from being disgusted by them, as I would have imagined myself to be, I savor them, wallow in my dead lovers' shit and piss, vomit, blood, and semen. I even eat it sometimes, licking out the corpse's anus, sucking the dead penis, kissing the bile filled mouth.

Well, anyway, Tom was so beautiful that I cleaned his body with my tongue, all over. It took the best part of the morning to finish my cleaning job, which had been punctuated, quite naturally, with several bouts of lovemaking. I dug a big hole in the dunes and after one last copulation, dropped Tom into it and dumped his bike and all his possessions, except his little box of S/M implements, on top.

By evening the hole was filled, sand was planted atop it, and there was no sign of Tom, or his bike -- or that he ever actually existed. That evening I tried beating myself with the belt, put on the nipple clamps, and testicle restrictors. I fucked myself with Tom's inflatable dildo. I could still not empathize with Tom's lust for pain, but I did find some of it arousing.

I learned from those two -- Bert and Tom. If Tom had not been a real, genuine, masochist, I am sure that the tables would have been turned on me. So I resolved to be more careful in future, as I said before. For instance, I picked up this guy in a gay bar down in California. He was a typical football player type.

The guy was high on drugs and had been trying to hustle me. I left the bar without ever talking to him, but I had made eye contact and, as anticipated, he followed me out. He asked for ten bucks. I asked what I got for my money. He told me anything but pain. Pain was twenty five. I agreed and we walked to the Bronco, parked in a quiet side street two blocks away from the bar.

The guy reeled along -- he was so drunk, and high. His name was Johnny, he said. I did not really believe him, nor did I care. I had not had a lover for three months and the lust was becoming too overpowering to bear. I knew that I had to be care- ful and so I made myself calm down.

Johnny fell asleep as soon as we got into the car. He smelled as though he had not washed for a week and I drove with the windows open. As we walked to the 4X4, Johnny had admitted that he had no place to live and had been sleeping on the streets for three days since he arrived, penniless, in the city. He had hustled a couple of guys enough for some crack and a couple of shots of booze, that was how he got into that state. -- No one to notice if he didn't come back.

My camp was eight miles out of the city, along a river in an otherwise restricted area of a National Park. The Chief Warden is an ex student of mine and he allows me to camp there occasionally provided I do not tell anybody else. The arrangement suits me and I know I shall be left undisturbed for the duration of my stay there.

I shook Johnny awake when we arrived and he almost fell from the Bronco when I opened the door. I managed to help break his fall and steered him to the groundsheet outside the tent.

I told Johnny to strip off so that he could bathe in the river. He had some difficulty, but a few minutes later he was lying in the running water while I washed his entire body.

I gave Johnny a good scrub and put his clothes, and shoes, into a metal basket which I threw into the river. He began to protest until I showed him that the basket was firmly secured to a tree with a stranded stainless steel wire. He relaxed, and I told him that in the morning his clothes would be fresh and clean just ready to be dried.

With slurred speech, Johnny thanked me for my consideration and asked if I had a beer. I took two from the kerosene refriger- ator, popped them both, and handed one to Johnny. He was a handsome young man, twenty three or four I would estimate, and despite his obvious impecuniosity, his body remained firmly athletic.

Johnny told me his story. He had been gay since his early teens but had kept it secret from all but his gay friends. In his town, it seems, there was quite a closet full of gay footballers, all from the local high school, who were all too scared to tell anyone. How Johnny got into the crowd was an accident, but he had known that he had an attraction for other boys and when he came across three team members in a menage in the locker room, well he just fell there in front of them and let instinct take over. The problem was that, in college he had become greatly attracted to another member of the team who did not reciprocate the feeling, and he had dropped out.

Johnny went from job to job in his home town until his parents' nagging drove him to tell them the truth about why he had dropped out. His father went berserk, shouting about "faggots and queens" and had tried to hit Johnny. Johnny's pent up anger and frustration erupted and he beat his father up pretty badly. He had been arrested and was out on bail. Knowing that the whole sordid truth would be bared in the courtroom, Johnny jumped bail a week before and hitched to the city.

Johnny was were on his third beer by the time his story was finished and he seemed to be a little more lucid. I reminded him that he had quoted me two prices. I asked him what sort of pain I could inflict for twenty five dollars.

Johnny stood up and moved closer to the light. It was only then that I saw that his nipples were pierced. He told me that they had earned him fifty dollars in front of a camera when he was at college. Johnny had appeared in several pornographic films and was accustomed to being tied up and beaten. Learning from my close calls with Bert and Tom I knew that I had to disable this guy before I killed him. Now I saw my opportunity.

"I'll give you the twenty five dollars, Johnny," I said, "but I only want to tie you up and fuck your ass. I might give you the odd slap with my hand or belt, nothing heavy. Now, if you can make me especially happy, you know what I mean, I'll give you an extra twenty five. Fifty bucks all told. How does that suit you ?"

Johnny was elated and threw himself at my feet. I was still talking when his tongue started licking my hiking boots and I started to get hot when I thought about the fun which lay ahead for me.

I ordered Johnny to lie on the groundsheet, on his back, and to spread put his arms outstretched so that they were above his head. I hammered two pegs into the ground near Johnny's hands and tied leather thongs around his wrists which I then secured to the pegs. I told Johnny to try to escape, and was satisfied that he could not.

Next I tied some soft nylon rope around Johnny's ankles and bent his legs so that his ankles were over his shoulders, wide- spread. I secured these to the same pegs. I now had an unobstructed angle of attack to Johnny's far from virgin asshole, but first I was going to do a little belting.

I took my wide, studded belt and made a few tentative swipes at Johnny's upturned buttocks. He squirmed in anticipation when the leather met his skin and I noticed that he was able to lift his ass off the ground. As an added security measure I hammered two more pegs into the ground, one either side of Johnny's waist, and wrapped a rope from one peg to the other across Johnny's washboard stomach. That would keep him still.

Johnny was the first one that I told, beforehand, what I was going to do. I rarely tell my lovers, but sometimes the terror of imminent death combined with the hope of a reprieve make excel- lent sexual stimulants. I whacked Johnny's firm young buttocks a dozen times or so with the belt -- each stroke stronger than its predecessor. He was grunting but had not cried out, and I knew he could take far more severe punishment. But that was not why I had him here, and that was when I told him what I intended to do.

I had partly anticipated the reaction, and when he started yelling loud enough that someone might just hear, I slapped wide adhesive tape across his mouth. He was still screaming and crying loud enough for me to enjoy -- just not enough to carry to any inquisitive ears.

I showed Johnny the knife and told him that I would stab him at exactly the point that we reached simultaneous orgasms. Of course, Johnny's erection had subsided somewhat, and he had urinated over himself and defecated over the groundsheet, so I had some work to do first. I thoroughly washed him off with river water and then gave him several enemas to clear out his bowels. It was an hour, during which time Johnny kept struggling and pleading into his gag as the tears streaked his handsome features.

I was now ready. I sucked Johnny's member, with little success and so I told him that if he made me happy, I would spare his life. A lot more coaxing was required before the blood began to flow and I was about sucked out by the time he had reached the best efforts at an erection I thought I could expect.

I mounted him and pumped his organ as I plowed mine into his rectum. I was tired, this was not the fun I had anticipated, and so when I felt orgasm approach I did nothing to delay it. I pumped harder at Johnny's phallus and kissed his face, around his gag. I chewed at his ear, sensuously in order to help him towards his own, final, climax.

Despite his situation, Johnny began to tense and his man- juice spurted forth, less enthusiastically than I felt certain he was capable of -- at the exact moment that I ejaculated into his totally relaxed asshole. As this happened, I picked up the knife and waved in front of Johnny's terrified eyes.

Then, something I had not anticipated happened. In fear, Johnny vomited, but with his mouth firmly sealed by the gag, the nauseous mixture soon blocked his nostrils and then backed up, filling his windpipe. I watched in awe as he drowned on his own vomit. I did not even need to use the knife.

As Johnny struggled in his unyielding bonds, his eyes looked as though they would burst from their sockets at any moment. The rapture of death stimulated me again and my penis became engorged while still inside Johnny's asshole. When I had softened slightly after our shared climax, some new, wet feces which had found its way down into Johnny's colon since the enema, oozed around my cock. Its warm, slimy feel served to increase the sensation and I resumed a fanatical, violent pumping action in and out of the young man's rectum as he suffocated on his own bile.

When it was over, I decided to wash Johnny in the river before sleeping with his corpse. He was big, and heavy, and it took all my strength to drag him to the water's edge.

Then another unplanned thing happened. While I was washing him his body floated out from the bank a little and suddenly got caught in the strong current. I tried desperately to hang on to his foot but I was in danger of being dragged away myself and reluctantly let go. I was in a panic, fearing that, at last, I would get caught. But then I began to think the position through and decided that it was not, really, so bad. At least I was saved the effort of digging a grave.

Johnny's clothes were still bobbing in the river, now quite clean, so I pulled in the basket and let the clothes follow their owner down the raging torrent.

When his body was found an autopsy would reveal drugs and alcohol in his system. I felt sure that the police would not look too deeply into the death of another penniless hustler. They would assume that he was high and went for a swim. The current is very strong and even a man as powerful as Johnny would have difficulty fighting it, especially under the influence of toxic substances.

Sure enough, Johnny's body was found in a calmer, slower part of the river two days later, after losing the eyes and some flesh to fish. The police were reported to be treating it as a drug death. "Apparently, while swiming, he was caught in the swift current, panicked, vomited, and drowned in his own vomit. That would be consistent with all the circumstances ..." the newspaper reported.

That was the first time that I did not have to strike the death blow myself -- figuratively speaking, that is. I describe all methods of dispatch poetically as death blows. It has happened on three occasions since then. Once a similar thing happened and my lover vomited in fear and drowned in his vomit, as Johnny had, while I fucked him. One guy just passed out and never recovered. I assume that it was a heart attack. The fourth was an interesting situation. On that occasion the whole thing almost backfired on me and my intended victim was very close to getting the better of me. I had underestimated his strength, both physically and mentally, and it led to another close call.

His name was Andy. He was another college drop out -- nineteen, only five feet seven, and one hundred ten pounds. Under normal circumstances I would not have bothered with him, but I had been unlucky for two weeks and the desire was beginning to hurt. I met Andy in a mens' room, hustling blow jobs for five bucks each. He was dressed in tattered shorts, a torn tee shirt and wore no shoes. At least he was clean.

It was easy to pick him up and I took him across two state lines in two days while the urge built up inside me. Not that it was an unpleasant two days. Not at all -- Andy just kept milking me dry with his mouth, so very experienced in one so young, while I drove across the prairie, and our nights were filled with active, imaginative bed play.

But I had to have Andy's life.

On our second day I pulled up at a plateau I had used several times before. It is hard to find and inaccessible with anything other than a powerful 4X4 with the correct all terrain tires. The plateau is at an elevation of over four thousand feet, in the mountains where it is unbearably hot in the daytime and can freeze you at night.

This presented no problem as there was a cave, which had once been extended with a mine tunnel, and I always stay in there. There is a small stream of cool fresh water, not a gushing torrent but sufficient to keep a few people clean and slake their thirsts. The mine, long since abandoned, has a number of air shafts which generate a breeze so that the cave is airy and cool, even in the heat of the day. Oddly enough, the breeze seems slightly warmer than the outside air during the low temperatures of night and early morning.

We laid the sleeping bag and blankets on the smooth stone floor of the cave and lit a fire under a fissure right in the entrance. This is a natural fireplace, the smoke billowing up and away, with the heat being reflected off the walls. There are mounting ledges for cooking grills which I guess the miners must have hewn out many years ago.

The passion burning inside me was beginning to overtake my normal caution and while I was fucking Andy on the blanket, dinner bubbling away on the fire, I felt the urge so strongly that, quite unplanned, I made my move. Not an impulsive person at all, I was lucky that this out of character behavior did not result in my undoing.

I felt Andy's writhing body spasm, and I recognized it as his signal to me that he was approaching orgasm. I, too, was not far off and as I kept up my rhythm in time with Andy's spasms I reached for a serrated knife on the rock nearby. The movement had caught Andy's eye and he looked just as I managed to get hold of the knife.

Things happened so quickly then, yet seemed to take place in slow motion. My penis started to shoot my seed deep into Andy's guts and his manjuice spattered up between our bodies. At the very same instant Andy bucked and twisted, obviously aware that all was not well. I tried to hold him but he was stronger than I had guessed, as I said, and he was able to toss me off and out of him.

The next thing I knew was that Andy was on top of me, the knife, which he had wrested from my hand, at my throat. We were both breathing heavily and I was scared. He just looked at me and grinned, an evil, leering grin which seemed so unlike him.

Still holding the knife so close to my throat that every time I inhaled I felt the serrated blade touching my skin, he started to stroke his penis back to erection. This took but a few seconds. He was hot, this young man, and then he directed me to roll onto my front. I obeyed and immediately felt his member invade my anus for a wild, long, satisfying fuck -- yes, satisfying, for us both.

When he had finished, it must have been at least thirty to forty minutes, Andy tied my arms behind my back with the rope I use to lash the blankets and sleeping bag into a bundle. Then he propped me up against the cave wall and began interrogating me about why I had picked up the knife, and why I wanted to kill him -- he had correctly interpreted the situation.

I tried to bluff my way out but he was having none of it, and so in the end I told him that I had read about sexual orgasm at the point of death and wanted to try it out, with my lover being the one to die, not me.

Andy believed me, that it was experimental, and began to discuss his own, way out fantasies of what he would do if he had a willing partner -- or an unwilling but unable to resist partner.

I did not like the way the conversation was going and tried to change the subject by pointing out that the stew bubbling away on the fire was ready to eat.

Well, I shall not bore you with the details but Andy kept me tied up all night and the following morning, during which time he subjected me to many different kinds of physical, sexual and mental torture. I was scalded with stew, whipped, fucked in face and mouth, burned with a blazing stick. I was forced to eat Andy's feces and drink his urine. Any other food that he allowed me had to be eaten from his feet, or from his genital area.

The trouble was, he was getting more and more violent and less and less coherent. I was getting even more scared. It was at about noon, when I had just endured the third shit meal of the day, each washed down with Andy's piss, that the accident hap- pened.

Andy was racing about the cave, ranting about power and telling me that he intended to put my theory to the test (meaning that he wanted to kill me at the moment of orgasm) when he lost his footing and slipped. He put his hands forward to break his fall and they went into the fire, newly revived to cook lunch. A pan of boiling water spilled over his body and in his struggles he managed to wedge himself in the fissure.

It took at least four or five minutes for Andy to pass out. During that time his arms were burned through to the bone and his upper torso was badly charred. I think that it might even have been the smoke that overcame him, not the pain, but in any case I seized the opportunity to get free.

That was easier said than done and it was almost two hours before I sawed through the rope and leather belts -- he had tied me very tightly for the night. I pulled his body out of the fire, which had died down a little, and laid him on the ground. By now I had learned the beauty of eating human flesh, so this one was not going to go to waste.

Even though Andy was badly disfigured from his burns, I was aroused in the presence of death and so I mounted him and chewed at his well cooked shoulders, savoring the flesh. I stayed in the cave for another two days. Andy was my sole source of meat, and was still able to supply sexual satisfaction as I kept his body sitting on a rock right next to the fire which always remains hot and helped delay the onset of rigor mortis.

When it was time to leave, I burned up the rest of the body, crushed the bones and dropped them into the stream. By the time they appeared anywhere they would be unrecognizable.

You will recall I mentioned the use of drugs. I did experi- ment but under normal circumstances they dilute the sensation to be realized from a partner fully conscious at the instant that I strike. However, I always carry a few drugs which I obtained from a contact who works for a major pharmaceutical corporation. Some are to increase sexual arousal, a bit like the old Spanish Fly, some to relieve pain (I shall tell you about those in my next letter), but the most important drugs are those which put the taker to sleep. I have used these twice, and was very pleased that I had had the foresight to get them.

Both occasions were almost identical. I had picked up the young man and we had established that he would ride with me for a few days, and "help around the camp", with all the connotations attached to that condition.

Both had proudly admitted that they were gay, and into S/M. I am wary of people with those claims nowadays. On the very first night I awoke to find the guy had tied me up and was ransacking the camp. After collecting all my valuables, the guy beat me and fucked me before trying to get away in the 4X4. I have a very sophisticated anti-theft device and less than a hundred yards from the camp it would stall, never to be started again without knowing how. The guy had a walk ahead of him.

After releasing myself, I would recovered the 4X4, and go looking for him. It was always easy. Of course he would try to run, be defensive, then aggressive. My line was that I had en- joyed the treatment, wanted more. I really convinced them that I liked to be maltreated. Of course, they both believed me and got into the passenger seat with an arrogance it was hard to ignore. I would say that all the beer was gone, he knew that anyway having drunk most of it, and offer fresh orange juice from the ice box. The juice was laced. It was hot and the guy quenched his thirst. In five minutes he was out cold.

The guy awoke to find himself securely lashed to the ground. I threw water over him and waited for another hour or so until he was fully recovered. Then I told him what was about to happen. On these occasions I thought that the knowledge of their impending demise might add flavor to the situation. Of course, they would beg, apologize, promise never to do anything like that again. I would listen, appear to soften a little, then make my proposal. He must submit himself to me and accept any treatment I meted out in exchange for his life. If I was not fully satisfied, or if he failed to obey an instruction, he would die. Both accepted.

I made sure that his arms were tied very tightly. I was not concerned about blocked circulation. His wrists were tied to the opposite elbow, and the rope then wrapped around his waist. In this way he had no use of his arms and could only run with great difficulty if he attempted to escape. I had learned a few tricks over the years and I can tell you these guys really went through the mill. I made them eat my shit and drink my piss. I beat them until the blood poured from their battered bodies. I really laid it into them, and in that vain hope of life, they took it all.

For the final act I need my victim's sexual arousal and so I made my offer. Please me and you go free, fail me and you die. He sucked and slurped at my member until I thought it would burst and then I sat him on my lap. He rocked up and down, back and forth with my manhood impaling him. I pulled and pumped at his erection to bring him towards a climax. With both my timing was impeccable. He gushed forth in my hands as I filled his rectum, and as we both shuddered in orgasm I pushed him forward, still impaled on my penis, and smashed his head on a rock placed in the exactly correct position.

The first one was knocked out, never regaining consciousness although I kept fucking him for another hour or so. The second one was stunned, but still alive. He lived for five more hours during which I abused him worse than I had before. I began to tire of his limp, servile body, and so I choked him, with my bare hands, as I climaxed one last time inside him.

That was fun. Now I sometimes use my hands if my lover is unable to resist, and if I have the time. But in order to expedite the number of climax deaths I need, the 0.38 is probably the most efficient, and reliable.

There, I have shared some more of my exploits with you and those who read your stories. There will be a third, and probably final, letter from me soon. After that, there will be little left to tell you. Unless, that is, I have some more outstanding experiences in the coming months. Until the next time,

the Camper