... third letter


 
Dear Sir,  

I could pull my hair! This is the third letter from that maniac! I hope this isn't getting to be too much asking you to run his letter again! I'm a little worried for my personal safety! Especially if you don't run the letter. 

... Moses Philstein  

 

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12 August, 2010bbbbbbbb

Did you like my second letter? I hope so. Are you trying to identify me? That would be fun. You never will, you know. I am way too clever to get caught. Enough of that. Here is my final letter, at least for the time being. I am not too sure whether or not you will print this. If you do, I expect you might censor it. I am going to tell you some of the way out things I have done with my lovers, before, during and after, death.

We have established that now my modus operandi as far as the actual death blow is concerned is the use of a .38 pistol, loaded with a single bullet. The gun is small enough to be easily concealed -- it is a snub nose -- here is no need for accurate shooting for my purposes. And it inflicts sufficient damage to the heart to be one hundred percent reliable.

In most cases the blood flow is enough to stimulate my desire for that sweetest of fluids but not so great that the camp is awash in the stuff -- that is sometimes the aim, but not usually. The flesh wound can be easily sealed, so preventing further external blood loss, though of course internal hemorrhaging continues and the final result is always the death of the victim.

I have used the same gun occasionally to inflict wounds with a more delayed effect -- such as stomach or intestinal wounds. Under normal circumstances these would be rectifiable with proper emergency treatment -- a fact that I tell my lover in order to encourage his enthusiastic reciprocation to my love making with the promise, never to be kept, that I will take him afterwards to the hospital.

In these cases my lover is tied up or otherwise disabled until I am satisfied that he is too weak to be able to resist me. It is rather scintillating having a dying man who is suffering great agonies overcome his discomfort to give me pleasure and satisfaction. The use of those sexual arousal drugs is of great assistance here.

Once or twice I have opened the bullet hole with a knife. Not too much, mind you, just enough to allow my rigid phallus to enter the breach. I have to be careful that the stomach or upper digestive tracts have not been perforated. In that case there is the risk of acid presence, and that could severely damage my penis if the acid contacted it.

In the lower belly is best. I try to fire the bullet about three inches below the navel with a very slightly upward trajectory. The knife is then used to make a slit on each side of the hole. The victim is always squirming in pain by now. If I have camped in a remote place he is screaming his head off. If there is the danger of people being within possible earshot, his cries are muffled in his gag.

Now I mount him, stuffing my penis into the wound. This is a tight fit, deliberately, and my member normally tears the frayed edges of the wound a little as I enter. Then I fuck like was an asshole. The sensation of the small intestine undulating around in there, spasmodically tensing and relaxing in response to the pain, must be experienced to be believed.

It feels like I imagine it would be fucking a pot full of slimy eels without the risk of being bitten. Well, that is the closest description I can think of. The victim cannot escape the hammering of my phallus into his bowels which results in sharp, gut wrenching agony. Yet his one hope of survival is to satisfy me as quickly as possible so that I will take him for treatment. He thinks.

While I fuck the wound I massage my lover's penis, helping to restore the erection he lost temporarily when I told him my intentions. For these lovers I have administered those sexual arousal drugs I mentioned earlier. With exotic little nibbles to his ears, and lips if he is not gagged, and licks around his face, the manipulation of his member combined with the drugs results in the desired engorgement. Then I slide the hard muscle into my own anus so that when I pull out from his guts, his cock slides into my rectum, when I lunge into him, his penis slips to the very lips of my asshole. It is an arousing new twist on the double fuck concept, and I recommend it highly to any of your members seeking a new thrill.

The aim, as ever, is simultaneous orgasms, and I have been successful so far with this technique. The last time I did it, I followed up with an idea I had read about. I stuck my hands into the wound, now gaping from the penile assault, and pulled out the guy's intestines. At this point he is still expecting a reprieve and I delight in telling him that there will be none. Then I hug and caress him, hold him close to me, his intestines squashed between us and I kiss him until he passes out. Really magic, you know, the feeling. I love it.

I had disemboweled people before that, but after death. This was the first on a live subject, although it was only a partial disembowelment. Since then I have performed several emasculations and disembowellings on lovers who were still alive. At the outset he was alive, anyway. I particularly enjoy removing an organ, normally it is one kidney, and cooking it while the victim watches. I choose a kidney because there are two, and he can still hang on to the thought of survival, but also because it is relatively easy to locate and remove. A testicle is another good choice.

I once removed a young man's rectum, in toto, while I had him strapped over a wooden saw horse. I sealed up the blood vessels, and just about everything else, with branding irons I had recently added to my collection of implements. Then I fucked the wound. This was a little loose by now but I discovered that if I squeeze his buttocks together there is something of a sensation. Not as good as most, though. Here again I used sexual arousal drugs so that I was able to coax a couple of orgasms from him, despite the pain he suffered.

After that I cooked his rectum, right in front of him, and with a little bit of resistance, and gagging he finished up eating it all. I was able to keep him alive for three days but by then the infection which must have been spreading inside him had raised his fever so high that he was delirious. Even the drugs did not work and so I just buried him alive. After a final copulation. At least he was out of his misery then.

The pain suppressors are good, too. I have used these when I dismember or castrate my lover. The local acting types are just refinements on Novacaine, I suppose, and those administered orally or for general pain relief are probably opiates. I do not concern myself with the composition, or side effects. I am only interested in results that serve my purpose. With several of my lovers I have removed their genitals, with the aid of local and general pain relievers. Then I sew up the wound to produce a second love orifice for me to fuck. I try to ensure that the urethra is intact and unblocked when I finish so he can urinate.

Once the operation is complete I have two holes in which to deposit my manjuice. The only unfortunate aspect is that my lover is unable to enjoy a simultaneous orgasm with me after he has been castrated. Worse, only I receive sexual satisfaction at the exact moment of death. No matter, I only do this now and again between my more regular activities. I always cook and eat the genitals I remove from my lover. I delight in watching the pure agony and despair on his face as I chew and swallow the manhood he was once so proud of.

I often cook part of my lover while he remains alive. My favorite style is to roast his ankle or calf over a gentle fire. I baste this part of his leg with butter and oil. From the part to be eaten upwards I make sure that the skin is continously sprinkled with water. This makes certain that the part that I wish to eat is perfectly cooked while the remainder of the leg is virtually untouched. The fire tends to be self cauterizing and so blood loss is minimized. I have cooked and eaten both lower legs of many lovers.

This means four cook outs. First one foot and ankle, then the other. Next one calf, finally the opposite side. In between cooking his asshole is still available for my use and the sexual arousal drugs guarantee his own erection and ejaculation remain potent. I do sometimes cook the thighs, but this more often than not damages the genital and anal areas, thus rendering him useless for anything other than eating. It has worked a few times, when I could keep the sensitive areas damp and cool enough, but it takes a great deal of attention and concentration on my part, and I often lack the patience for that.

It is an especially awesome experience, chewing tender flesh from a man's bones as he watches, unable to take his eyes from the gory sight. I have observed that the cooking destroys most of the nerves, although when I leave the meat rare, so that there is still quite a lot of blood, many nerves remain to transmit their agonizing message to his brain. There are benefits in both approaches, so I change around, but I prefer the medium rare taste rather than the very rare. I am prepared to forego some of the extra wriggling and screaming as I nibble away at his leg in exchange for the tastier meal.

The eroticism is enhanced when I fuck his asshole while sucking the cooked flesh from his toes, or ankle, or any other part of his leg. He cannot resist, and they always cry. Yet, with the aid of the drugs, my kisses are returned with a passion and I can easily produce an exploding climax in my lover as I both eat and fuck him simultaneously. I can often ejaculate inside his tortured body seven or eight times during the course of one meal, and hecould expect to come at least twice.

Cannibalism, really an ugly word for such an ecstatically beautiful experience, has been a regular part of my activities since very early on. Yes, I suppose you could describe me then as a cannibal and a necrophiliac. I really got turned on by fucking my dead lover, then cooking parts of his body to eat. I developed some pretty good recipes based on human flesh and organs. Perhaps I should write a Cook Book. Would you publish it for me?

Necrophilia, defined as the morbid, especially erotic, attraction to corpses, has a very broad sphere of activities within it. Actually, the dictionary suggests the word necrophily is more accurate, but in common usage my spelling is accepted. Do you know what it is like to sleep with a very recently deceased person? Very erotic (must be necrophiliac!). I also like it with corpses after they have become stiff (funny, the penis never stays rigid before it stiffens, never mind how hard you try).

There is that great feeling of power, thrusting your hand into every orifice, breaking bones, twisting and bending limbs to the breaking point. You can, with effort, create a still life artistry with the dead body. I have a vast collection of photographs to prove it. You can perforate the skin anywhere you like (it might be possible with a live person but that would probably result in death, anyway) and just stick your hand, or foot, or penis into it. I spend hours, sometimes, just playing with my dead lover. It is wild.

I mentioned my collection of photographs just now. Believe me it is spectacular. I have a photograph of all but three of my ex lovers. Ted was the first. I have pictures of him alive, naked in all his beauty, and of his blood covered corpse just before I washed him in the lake. Almost all of my lovers are represented in both living and deceased states. Most have pictures showing various stages of his ordeal.

I have some outstanding colored photos of one young man whose legs I cooked in the four stages described earlier. With the timer, or by using a remote shutter operator, I am included in a large proportion of the scenes. They tend to be the more active shots. Do not worry. The photographs are very well hidden, away from any suspecting, prying eyes. Not that anyone has even remotely connected these "disappearances", let alone tied me to them.

A couple of years back I discovered the enchantment of hanging. My lover, I mean, not me. Did you know that, especially with the help of sexual arousal drugs, though they are not always necessary, a man who is slowly dying of suffocation as he hangs from his neck by a noose can produce a gigantic erection and copious quantities of sperm. That fits in very nicely with my own special pleasures. There are numerous ways which result in death by hanging coinciding with an orgasm.

One way is to stand on a rock, or box and fuck his asshole while masturbating him. When I feel the evidence that his climax is near, I pump him harder, in rhythm with my cock inside his orifice. As the first spasms of ejaculation jerk his penis in my hand I spurt into his rectum and at the same time lift myself up with my free hand around his shoulders. This closes the small air passage which the noose had allowed (it took a lot of practise and experimentation, with a few premature losses, to perfect the technique of tying and placing the noose exactly right to let him breath, albeit with difficulty, while his weight hangs from the rope). Now his eyes pop out and he gasps vainly for air.

When I have milked his sperm bag empty, I wipe my semen covered hand across his lips and then kiss him. His mouth is open but no more than a faint gurgle escapes as I kiss his lips, his tongue (now usually hanging out) and lick the inside of his mouth.

With most of the lovers I have dispatched this way it took two or three minutes of quivering, kicking and twitching before the lack of air in the blood supplying the brain caused him to faint. Even at this stage it is often possible to revive him by lowering him immediately to the floor and applying artificial respiration. I have done this a few times. Then I let him rest, well, I fuck him but he does not need to exert himself too much. When he has recovered I repeat the whole thing, complete with the final orgasm.

One poor guy had to suffer that fate four times before I got bored and let him die. A variation on this is to have the noose tied tightly enough to restrict the air flow, but keep the rope itself loose and my lover standing on a box. At the exact moment of simultaneous orgasm I grab onto his shoulders, as decribed before, but then I kick the box away from under us so that he falls. With my weight added to his, even a fall of two feet is normally instantly fatal.

Some guys have hung on (no pun intended) for a little while after that, not many. The fall invariably breaks his neck, though even then this is not the cause of death. He just hangs there, neck stretched and his head at a weird angle, while his air starved lungs heave and heave until he dies. These are all great phenomona, which I highly recommend. They are part spectator and part involvement sports. The outcome is the same, and into the bargain you enjoy a highly enhanced sexual satisfaction that can be induced only by a lover's death at the moment of a joint climax.

I have not yet been specific about my .38 yet, have I? I described it near the beginning of this letter, and I told you the basic methods of its use. I have set my lover up as a target, on rare occasions, and practised shooting, not that aim is of paramount importance for me. Nonetheless, I feel that I might one day need to defend myself and a steady hand, with a good eye, may help save my life. I suspend him from his arms and mark targets on his buttocks. Then I put smaller targets on the backs of his legs.

From various distances I shoot at him. There is a lot of blood, and screaming, but the problem is that he usually dies on his own, especially the first one when my aim was not too good. If I have another lover in line it is no hardship, but if not it is rather inconvenient to have to fuck a dying lover who cannot even become erect (I have discovered that excessive blood loss renders the sexual arousal drugs useless). The only benefit I did find was that I had several more holes, all seeping blood, into which I could satisfy my lust, so all was not entirely lost.

I well remember one lover, named Peter. Another beach bum I found in Southern California. Twenty two years old, six feet one, one hundred and fifty very lean pounds. Pete had long dark hair and the golden tan found on those who live on the beach. He had a criminal record, he admitted, for drug pushing, and was celebrating the last visit to his parole officer when I met him. Having established that he was now not going to be missed I invited him to come camping with me in Mexico. He agreed and we set off right then and there.

Peter was another of those with a hyper sensitive prostate gland and he was in raptures the moment I penetrated him. He was able to come and come time after time, seemingly without losing his magnificent erection. His cock was ten inches long, erect, at least two and one quarter inches in diameter. It was straight and of uniform thickness along its entire length except for the head. This grew into a knob shape, it was circumsized, and the slit in the end was the largest I have ever seen. I could easily push my finger into it beyond the knuckle. Peter liked that being done to him, too, and whenever I removed my finger a gob of semen always followed it out.

We camped on a deserted beach a hundred miles or so south of the border, on the Gulf side. The weather was divine and Peter's clothes disappeared into his bag the moment we arrived. He never wore them again. I enjoyed Peter and his lovemaking. He made me feel good, and his enthusiasm was infectious. We did it in every conceivable position, in every possible location, as far as we could until the ultimate occasion arose. I was in seventh heaven and began questioning myself concerning my feelings towards this handsome young man. As always, I was saved as the lust to take him in death began to overtake my emotional love for Peter. I started to formulate a plan.

Peter was strong and fit, and I knew that I would need to take precaustions when the time came. He had already exhibited an acceptance of mild punishment and torture and was beginning to ask for more intense and longer lasting sessions. On this basis I decided that I would torture him to death, timing the final blow with our last simultaneous orgasm. Unfortunately, it was a day or more before I could implement my plans as I kept being overwhelmed by Peter's sensuality, and possibly my love for him, and found myself procrastinating. I had to be decisive, and so I made the decision to finish him off that afternoon so that I could enjoy his corpse during all night.

We had set up a stake which sat seven or eight feet above the ground. It was set deep into the sand. Peter had dug the hole himself and set up the stake. He really loved being lashed to the rough timber, which we found on the beach, for a severe lathering with my leather belt. After this I would fuck him, hard, hammering my cock in so deeply that it would squash his own erection against the wooden post. That was always good for at least two orgasms for Peter. Sometimes I tied him to the post with his hands behind him and whipped his cock and balls with reeds. He never lost his erection, even with swollen testicles and blood covering his penis.

I told Peter while we sat eating a light lunch, that I was going to give him the severest punishment session that he had ever experienced. If he took all I could give, I would take him back to my home to live with me. This was a desire that he had hinted at on numerous occasions and I knew that he would leap at the chance. In any case, his semi flaccid penis sprung to attention when I told him, which was evidence enough. He gulped down his lunch and began to carry the whips and ropes, my box of implements (now well expanded) and some chain over to the beam.

With Peter busy preparing for his own torture, I hid a few extra items in a canvas roll which I dropped near the post and covered by kicking sand over it. We had found another post on the beach, the same cross section as the first but this was only six feet long. That was long enough. I told Peter to lift it up and place it horizontally across the vertical post about six feet above the ground. Peter immediately recognized a crucifix and his manhood squirmed for relief as it bulged a little more. Or was that my imagination? I lashed the cross member to the upright with rope so that it was very well secured. Then I told Peter to fetch two of the boxes we use for storing supplies.

I placed one box right in front of the cross, the other behind. Peter followed my orders and stood on the box in front, his back to the cross, and held his arms out. I got onto the box behind and held his right arm, pulling it back over the top of the horizontal bar so that his elbow cradled the cross member and his hand was in front. I tied his arms in this position, which I recognized was very uncomfortable. Peter did not complain, nor did his raging phallus. I did the same with his left arm.

I kicked Peter's box away from behind, unexpectedly. He fell a few inches until his entire weight was being carried on his uncomfortably bound arms. He let go a little yelp, out of surprise, but uttered no other sound. I recovered my canvas roll and opened it. Peter watched wide eyed when I produced a hammer and some large nails. He began to whimper when he realized what was about to happen to him, but he did not beg, did not ask me to stop, and his erection remained as strong as ever.

When I held his right foot, it twitched a little, and jerked as Peter fought the reflex to pull it away. I stroked it gently, and explained, in a soft voice, that I was going to nail his two feet to the timber. Peter was sobbing now. Still no pleading, no abatement in his engorged phallus. I placed the sole of his right foot against the upright post so that it laid flat on the wood and his knee was slightly bent. I held the nail against the top of Peter's foot which was shaking and twitching still. I looked up into Peter's deep brown eyes, then back at the nail.

With one hefty blow I drove the nail through Peter's foot and into the timber. A second blow pressed the large head of the nail against his flesh. He cried out with the first blow, then just resumed his sobbing. Peter's tears flowed freely down his cheeks and spattered on me as I positioned the second nail. Again the first blow drove the nail through his flesh and cartilege, again a little scream. The second blow pressed Peter's left foot tightly to the rough lumber.

I was proud of Peter, and must admit to having second thoughts about his fate. I felt that the very least I could do was to relieve him sexually, even if the relief would only be temporary. I took his ten inch penis into my mouth but before I could set up any pattern of sucking it he spurted an enormous wad of semen into my mouth followed by another and another. Peter had a look of gratitude on his face when I looked up at him, and swallowed his manjuice. I kept stroking his beautiful member which did not subside at all after his ejaculation.

Peter's hands were hanging under the cross beam, trembling. I held one hand to the underside of the beam and nailed that, palm up, into the timber, followed by his other hand. Peter was confused, but he thought he was being tested to establish his suitability to share my life.

Peter's reasoning would have been that when I reached the point at which he was prepared to take no more his hope of a life of luxury would be shattered unless I had told him he had passed. He was valiantly holding on with the impression that he would have to enjoy these, or similar, sufferings in the future. Peter had already begged for severer and harsher punishments, and so he recognized his own innate masochism. He was now testing himself as much as I was testing him.

I replaced the box in front of the cross and stood on it. I put my mouth close to Peter's and his tongue darted out, trying to reach me. I engaged him in a kiss and he responded passionately. I licked the tears which had dried on his cheeks, and cleaned his eyes with my tongue.

I turned my back on Peter and placed his knob headed penis against my anus, which I had lubricated with grease from my canvas roll. I lowered myself onto my crucified lover, savoring the rigid ten inches of solid muscle which filled my rectum. I lifted myself on tip toes, the lowered myself on his member again. I did this again and again until I felt Peter spasm inside me and his seed gushed forth to fill me.

I stepped down from the box, allowing Peter to plop out of my sated anus. He had enjoyed two climaxes since we started and it was now my turn. Peter had smooth, slightly muscled legs. I prefer shapely legs, not too muscular, and Peter was perfect in that score. I took my serrated fish gutting knife and made a slit in the side of Peter's right leg. He squealed when the blade bit into his flesh and screamed louder as I sawed through the muscle to create an opening for me. He must have been having some doubts at this stage, but still he managed to quieten down when I removed the knife and he said nothing.

I stood next to Peter's crucified body and, bending my knees a little, pressed my erection against the slit I had just made. The flesh gave way a little and I pressed harder until my phallus disappeared into Peter's twitching calf muscle. I fucked Peter's leg for ten minutes before I allowed myself to be engulfed by orgasm. All the time I masturbated my crucified lover who shot his load with a moan as I spurted inside his leg with a roar.

I stood back to admire my handiwork and to recover my wind. I looked at my beautiful beach boy, perfection itself, whom I had now deformed beyond redemption. My mind was made up, I must kill Peter. I went behind the cross and cut through the ropes lashing the horizontal bar to the upright. With the assistance of Peter's weight the bar fell and Peter crumpled onto the sand, his feet still nailed to the wooden post. He was crying hysterically into the soft sand. I pulled on the cross member and tugged his feet through the nails, which caused him to scream rather loud. Then I turned the timber over so that Peter rolled onto his back.

He was a magnificent sight, still so perfect despite the holes in his feet. But it was too late for him now. I lifted his right foot up and lashed the ankle to the right hand end of the cross member then did the same with his left ankle. I now had the unobstructed view of his twinkling anal lips which quivered in anticipation. Peter, as I mentioned before, loved to be fucked, and the desire to take an erect phallus inside him overcame all other motivation in his young life. His anus pursed like the lips of a whore's mouth, beckoning me in to bask in the warmth of his love cavern.

The hammer lay on the sand at Peter's side. I entered him and immediately he ejaculated onto his own heaving chest. I came once, twice. He came three more times, without me having to touch his penis. The massaging action of my cock on his prostate was all that was needed. Now I wanted us to be in synchronism, and I told him so. He blinked through his tears, he must have been in considerable pain and discomfort then, and nodded. I set up the rhythm and he quickly followed me.

Without his knowledge I picked up the hammer in my right hand. When I was ready I told him and grabbed his never soft cock in my left hand. It instantly erupted forth with a stream of pungent white fluid and I filled his rectum with my own manjuice. At that very moment I lifted myself up slightly and held the hammer over Peter's face for a fraction of a second. His eyes did not have time to focus on the hammer, or interpret my intentions. With the last spasms of his ejaculation spilling over his belly, and my last drops being squeezed out of my member by Peter's tight young sphincter, I struck. The hammer cracked against his forehead. Peter squealed, in surprise more than pain, I suspect. I struck again and Peter fell silent, for ever.

I did not bother with washing Peter's body. I untied him from the timber and pulled his hands off the nails. I laid him on the blanket, close to the cooking fire. Even the nights were warm where we were so a fire was only required for cooking. I just wanted to keep his body warm for our final session of love making. For the rest of the evening and night I showed Peter all the love I had for him but could not share with him in life. I ate from his soiled rectum as my sign of adoration, I fucked the holes in his feet, then severed his feet from his body so that I could hold them between our faces as we lay on our love blanket. It was glorious. I did love that man so much, and he gave me the ultimate, his life.

The following morning I took Peter's body a couple of miles offshore in my inflatable. Peter and I had seen sharks in the area over the past few days. It was easy to find the sharks and the water became a bloody flurry when I dropped Peter's body into the sea, followed by his feet, and his genitals which I had chewed off, in a moment of extreme passion, during the early hours of that morning. I had my trusty pistol with me, but the sharks did not bother the boat and I was secure in the knowledge that nothing identifiable of Peter's would ever surface. That was my most memorable Mexican vacation, for sure.

When I first decided to write to you I spent many hours scanning through my photograpf collection, recalling all of those wonderful deaths. Wonderful for me, because I am so intensely aroused by the occasion. Wonderful for my lover, because there can be no better way to leave this life than with the power of an orgasm washing through your entire being. I bring to my lovers a satisfying death. That is far more than could be expected if life were allowed its own course. The fact that my lovers are bums and drop outs, in the main, should not deny them the ultimate sensation of death in the throes of a resounding sexual climax.

During this review I began to count how many lovers I have released into this sexual nirvana. I was amazed when I started to add up the figures and they totaled almost two hundred. The first year only saw three, but from then on my annual score has been increasing. This year, and it is still the first quarter, I have just dispatched my ninth lover. Truly outstanding. In 1990 I hope to exceed last years bag of thirty four by at least ten. I am sure that it can be done.

To close this last letter, what better way than to describe the spectacular demise of my latest lover. I returned from my trip only yesterday, so Ronnie's body has only been in the ground for seventy two hours. It was an unusual pick up, well, far from usual would be a better description. Whereas the majority of my lovers are found hitch hiking, I meet many on the beach, in mens' rooms and occasionally in a bar. More often than not it is a gay bar. That is because I am getting itchy for a lover to kill before I have to look in bars, and a gay bar at least saves me the risk that he is straight. Or worse, anti-homosexual.

I had just left a small store, near my latest camp, and had provisioned up for my second, and last week, of this vacation. I had already buried two lovers near my cabin (which I bought three years back) and was planning to start cruising the highway the following day to find number three. As I walked gingerly down the wooden steps of the store, a young man bumped into me and I almost dropped the packages that were balanced precariously in my arms. The young man, I later found out that his name was Ronnie, helped steady me.

It was at that instant that I felt Ronnie's hands inside my jeans pocket, groping were he thought my wallet might be. I smiled at Ronnie and said "You won't find my wallet in there son, but you might just find a lethal weapon which could earn you more than pickpocketing." He looked embarrassed for an instant and was about to remove his hand. Instead, still looking directly at me, his fingers rubbed against my member, already stiffening in anticipation. Fortunately Ronnie's actions were hidden from any prying eyes by my packages.

I asked Ronnie to help me carry my provisions to the 4X4 and he readily agreed. We loaded up, during which short time I established that Ronnie was a suitable target. It seems that he was hitch hikeing and had been picked up by an elderly man who was heading upstate. Ronnie had accepted the man's advances and had spent the previous night in a motel with him. The following day, while Ronnie was sucking his benefactor in the car while they drove along, the old man felt Ronnie's fingers in his wallet poacket. He had stopped the car and thrown Ronnie out.

So here he was, penniless, no clothes, other than those he wore, or other possessions, and nowhere to go. Perfect. Ronnie was twenty one, actually it was his twenty first birthday that very day. Five feet ten, one hundred sixty pounds, he was well proportioned. Not that I could see that at once as it was winter and he was wrapped in a baggy woolen sweater. I found out how well proportioned he was when we arrived at the cabin. The fire was blazing within a few minutes of our arrival and after stowing the provisions I suggested that Ronnie might like to take a bath, with me.

He accepted and when he was naked I took his clothes and threw them in the old tub at the back of the cabin to soak. Ronnie would not be needing them again, only he did not know that yet. Ronnie liked to horse around and so we cleared all of the furniture to the sides of the main room and just wrestled and played around on the large rug. This was just an opportunity to slip into each other's love hole, alternately. I fucked him, he fucked me. We fell into a soixante-neuf position, then he rolled over and jumped up. He pinned me to the floor by sitting on my shoulders.

I could have resisted but I was having fun. Ronnie's member was bursting with excitement and drops of pre-seminal fluid were glistening at the end of his cock. I leaned up and took him into my mouth. Seconds later he tensed, then relaxed as he spilled his seed into my eager throat. A slow, gentle, erotic session of love making followed and by the time I was ready for my climax, Ronnie had another erection and I milked him dry while my manjuice burst into his rectum. I knew Ronnie was going to be spectacular, but I decided to be a little patient and enjoy him for two or three days more.

Towards the end of the week I decided that the time had come and Ronnie must die. Since we returned from the store five days previously, neither of us had worn a stitch of clothing and there had been few occasions without some sort of sexual activity going on, even while we ate. That was what gave me the idea for Ronnie's fate. He was dozing in front of the fire, stretched out luxuriously like a cat, after a particularly torrid session. I took rope from the locker and securely tied his wrists without disturbing him. Then I injected a double dose of pain reliever and a shot of sexual arousal drug.

Ronnie had still not awoken, but he did just as I hoisted him up by the rope tying his wrists. I had passed the rope over a block screwed into the ceiling beams, one of many. He struggled, and asked what I was going to do. I told him that we were going to have a little "kinky" fun, and not to worry. He relaxed a bit, but was clearly still tense. I rolled up the rug, to reveal a heavy grade polyethylene sheet underneath. I do not want my rug, or floor, stained with anything which could incriminate me.

I secured the rope to a cleat on the wall. Ronnie swung from the ceiling, his feet just a few inches above the floor. The rope was a thick, soft, natural fiber and so would not cause too much discomfort to his wrists. He would have to get use to the strain on his arms and shoulders, that was all. The pain drugs would take twentt minutes before optimum effectiveness was established so I took the opportunity to caress Ronnie's squirming body as it swung from the ceiling. I paid special attention to his fine young penis which responded even without the support of the arousal drug. His ejaculation was not long in coming and I let him climax in my mouth as I bent forward and sucked his manhood.

The drugs were now taking effect. I took a poker from the fire where it had been glowing for several minutes. Ronnie tried to kick my hand away as I approached, only succeeding in touching the iron which scorched his shin. He squealed, and was temporarily shocked. before he could recover I thrust the red hot poker into his anus. He screamed so loud that I had to put my hand over his mouth for a few seconds. I held the poker in place with my other hand and it was amusing to avoid his writhing kicks as he leaped around, swinging back and forth, vainly seeking relief from the agony which was tearing through his rectum.

I let the poker stay in place for two or three minutes until it was quite cool, and removed it. Ronnie was crying but his struggles had abated somewhat. His penis demonstrated a drug induced erection, and when I stroked it, semen seeped from the slit, indicating his arousal. The pain drugs that I used act on the internal organs, but their efficacy is limited externally. The anus, in this case, is external, and although Ronnie could feel little of the damage being caused to his colon, the searing pain to his rectum and sphincter muscles was attenuated only slightly. I returned the iron to the fire to heat up ready for my next move.

I stood on a low stool behind Ronnie and fucked his scorched ass while I waited for the iron to glow red. My actions caused him a lot of discomfort, and he was whimpering in pain as I plowed in and out of his burnt orifice. I put my arms around his suspended body and took hold of his scrotum with one hand and squeezed it, none too gently. With the other hand I pumped his erect phallus, hard and fast. Despite the pain in his ass and balls, it was not too long before he gushed forth his seed onto the plastic sheet below.

The iron was ready. Ronnie was swinging only slightly now, more of a rocking action. His tear filled eyes were closed and he was moaning softly. He would be feeling a mixture of intense sex drive and some pain. His eyes opened wide when I pressed the red hot tip of the iron onto Ronnie's left nipple. His scream was barely out of his mouth when the iron touched on his right nipple. Ronnie's nipples were melted and had become no more than scars, although he could not see that. I played the iron down his stomach, tracing a pattern while he resumed his kicking and struggling, still screaming.

Before it cooled too much, I plunged the iron into Ronnie's navel and held it there, in spite of his struggles, until it perforated the skin and was buried in his intestines. The cauterizing effect of the iron prevented any bleeding and I pushed the iron to its hilt until it was less than an inch from Ronnie's spine. I worked the cooling iron in and around the newly expanded navel until it was no longer hot enough to do any more. I again replaced the iron in the fire, and lowered Ronnie onto the floor, hands still tied.

The next half hour was spent in a variation of a theme I have mentioned previously. I fucked Ronnie's navel while taking his insatiable erection into my anus. I must have ejaculated at least five times before I tired, and my rectum was awash with two or three loads from Ronnie's unwavering phallus. Ronnie moaned and writhed all the time we double fucked. Whenever I kissed him he became more passionate and immediately spurted into me. Most of the time, though, I just licked his face or put my ear to his mouth to be entertained by his woeful moans.

Ronnie may not have realized yet, but the damage caused by that red hot metal was virtually irreversible. It was now just a matter of time before he died from internal injuries. I intended to choose that time. One camera was set up to take pictures automatically every one minute, using a special cartridge which holds three hundred exposures. I took another camera and shot some memorable pictures of Ronnie, a gaping navel, an erection which seemed to be bursting and a cherubic face wrinkled in pain.

I was hot, ready for the final act. I untied Ronnie's wrists as he would not resist now, of that I was certain. I lifted his legs onto my shoulders and slipped easily into his anus, now devoid of feeling. I started to move in and out, stroking Ronnie's erection in time with my movements. He climaxed twice before I was ready for the big one. I paced myself, allowing Ronnie time to recover from his climax and to begin to soar towards the next. I felt it. His breath quickened, his phallus swelled a little more in my hand. I released my seed into his unfeeling asshole; Ronnie sprayed us both with his manjuice; I thrust a knife into his dilated navel and sawed downwards.

Ronnie's lower belly burst open as the knife cut deeply into the flesh. His erection had not abated a bit, and I was still masturbating him by the time the knife touched on the top of his member. I kept pumping in and out of his rectum and waited for Ronnie's next, and final, orgasm. His penis forewarned me, I held the knife against his member. Ronnie screamed from the erotic agony the arousal drugs had induced and his seed erupted once more. I sliced upwards, then to the side, then down and to the other side.

Ronnie looked at me in disbelief as I held his severed genitals in front of his face, the blood dripping onto his upturned cheek and into his mouth. He started to scream, but only a gurgle came out. I was still ramming his asshole despite having climaxed in synchronism with him again. He wanted to cry, but he just let out a deep, low, moan. Ronnie's eyes glazed over and his head rolled to one side. He was dead. Another satisfying experience to be added to my many. As usual, the moment of death brought additional stimulus to me and so I kept fucking Ronnie for another hour before I flopped, exhausted, onto the plastic sheet and cuddled up beside him.

There you have it. From Ted to Ronnie, with so many in between. Will it ever end? Not until I lose my sex urge or die. Or get caught. That is highly unlikely. Are you trying to piece together the little clues I have given you throughout these three letters? I have not told you any untruths, or half truths. If I have mentioned a place, that is where it happened. The names are all genuine, not one has been changed. Could your computer patch in to the FBI and try to establish a pattern? No, because, so far, nobody has connected the disappearances of these young men, so nobody is even thinking that any crime has been committed.

I hope that my letters have stimulated you and your readers. That is not to say that my way of life, or death, is for everyone as nothing could be further from the truth. I was fated to kill my lovers, drawn to it by some unseen force. Not everyone is chosen by this force. It must necessarily be a person with the faculty to to recognize the calling, intelligent enough to be able to carry out the responsibilities entailed without alerting the suspicion of the authorities, and with sufficient judgement to be able to choose his lovers carefully. That is me. Do you conform to those requirements? Probably not.

You may hear from me again, when I have more to tell you. Until then, yours, for ever,

The Camper