Chapter One

The Criminal

Here he was, doing it again.

In an exclusive suburb of Southern California, halfway between the mountains and the sea, eighteen year-old Alex Downing lay in bed, naked.

The bed was large and luxurious, like the bedroom and mansion around it. He had the best of everything money could buy, from the lawyers who’d ensured his freedom to the tablet computer in his left hand. His right was otherwise shamefully engaged.

Just under six feet tall, Alex’ body was well-built and fit. He’d come to his full height if not heft and knew without the need for vanity that he was appealing. Athletically gifted, he’d played varsity wide receiver as a sophomore. When not wrenched with effort and anguish, his features were pleasing, with guileless blue eyes. The pale blonde of fresh-cut pine, his shoulder-length locks (kept in a habitual ponytail) were thick and lustrous.

Spare of facial or even much body hair, his skin easily took and maintained a perfect tan. Clear of blemish, it had all the smoothness of pampered youth. Expensive dentistry provided the flawless smile and before his fall he’d dated half a dozen of the hottest girls in school. Even at the clinic, the female staff and inmates (not to mention the gays) had been drawn to him despite his monstrous crime. Now look at him: it was eleven-thirty Saturday night and he was home alone jerking off – and crying while he did it.

Despite rehab and the year of court-ordered therapy which had been his only punishment for murder, Alex felt more fucked-up than ever. Nor would any neutral party quibble. Beyond the fact that he was streaming tears as he beat off, and had already decided to kill himself, just look at what was on that tablet! Look at what he was beating off to! The video showed a trio of women whipping, shocking and sexually torturing a tied-up naked man.

His formerly perfectly ordinary fantasy life had become twisted into bitterness and perversion. Wracked with remorse for his acts, and guilt for escaping the punishment he deserved, his craving for retribution was so pervasive it had infected his arousal mechanisms.

Unworthy of the liberties he was taking but as unable to resist onanism as any adolescent, he now wallowed in imagining compensatory suffering. Disturbing as it was, the so-called ‘femdom’ video gripped him as compellingly as his fist.

“Quit bawling, you vile piece of repellent