Suburban Sadist – Origin

Suburban Sadist – Origin

This story contains:
Blackmail
Humiliation

The actions described are fictitious and entirely illegal and immoral.

***

Sadism:
noun
1. Psychiatry. The condition in which sexual gratification depends on causing pain or degradation to others.
2. Any enjoyment in being cruel.
3. Extreme Cruelty

***

Mrs Blackwell looked at me with wide and tear-filled eyes as I explained what was going to happen to her. She would come to understand that her body was no longer hers. Instead, it would be mine and she would obey exactly what I commanded her to do.

It is a strange feeling to control someone so completely, to utterly dominate another person, to know that I will get what I want from them, and most importantly, to know that they know.

It is in incredible feeling to look at someone and know you are more devious, more cunning, more logical, more intelligent, and simply more powerful. The moment they understand and break is euphoric to me and that is exactly what makes me a sadist.

Of course, this doesn’t have to happen: Mrs Blackwell could go to the police, she could end this immediately and I wouldn’t stop her, the only thing keeping her here are her own failings.

“You will strip for me, as I command, and I will take the photos I need. Do you understand Gemma?”

“Y… yes Sir.”

“And do you know what each flash of my camera means Gemma?”

Mrs Blackwell’s head dropped and she held back her tears as I slowly explained the new reality she was living in.

“N… no Sir.”

“It means…” I paused so she would submissively look up at me, “it means everything I see, I own. Do you understand Gemma?”

The distraught woman wiped a tear from her eye as she managed a reply for her blackmailer, “Yes Sir.”

“Good girl, stand by the wall.”

Slowly Gemma got up from her seat and stood where I pointed. First I turned on my bright halogen lamp and pointed it directly at the scared woman. Then I picked up my large and heavy professional DSLR from the desk and slowly stalked towards her. Her limbs were so tense I could see them freeze as her eyes fixated on the camera.

“Hands by your side.”

The woman, 15 years my senior, obeyed quickly enough and looked absent-mindedly into the camera for the first shot. The large flash mounted on top of the camera did its job and caught the image of a trapped housewife desperate for the torture to end, or at least, desperate to know what it would entail.

“Hmmm… I need you to smile Gemma.”

My victim shuddered just slightly. She was obviously in no mood to even act enjoyment.

“P….please…”

“Please?” I echoed, but I only needed a raised eyebrow to elicit a response.

“P… please Sir.”

“There is no negotiation Mrs Blackwell.”

Gemma took a couple of deep breaths and found the strength to look back up at the camera. With wet eyes she finally managed a weak smile and my camera caught her humiliation and dread perfectly.

Over the next hour I cataloged Mrs Blackwell – Gemma – perfectly. As she stripped each piece of clothing from her body she was documented. From sweater to t-shirt, from jeans to panties, each transition was recorded, front and back. It was a record of a new slave entering her new world and showing exactly what she had to offer her new master. Obediently, gradually becoming accustomed to my sharp commands, Gemma posed for me with her hands behind her head, or bent at the waist with her tits swaying obscenely, or with her legs spread wide and awkwardly. My camera would capture everything and with each explicit statue she made for me, she would realise she was mine to do with as I wanted.

Of course, this gradual transition to ownership ends with the climax of the victim’s complete nakedness and so, finally, Gemma’s body was totally exposed to me. As I ask – or command – a new piece of property to spread her pussy, or her ass cheeks, or hold her tits up for inspection, neither of us can deny the transition is complete: My camera captures a body and a person that is totally mine.

The details of my story are obscene, vile and incredibly illegal. I am the Suburban Sadist.

Suburbia is hell so it should be no surprise it spawned a devil. I grew up in the most boring of neighborhoods: families of 2.3 children; whitewashed houses and immaculate laws; baseball on Saturday; PTA meetings; SUVs and people carriers; and gossip and rumors among the soon-to-be-rich. In essence, all the dead-livingness of middle-America in its modern glory: an incredible sea of boredom and fantasy.

So maybe I was lucky I understood which sexual fantasies would drive me through life. Of course, when you’re in high school this isn’t the most important question. In fact, it isn’t a question to be asked at all. My grades were good, very good, and that would keep me easily below the familial and suburbia radars, but it was my sexual desires that would inhabit and consume my free time. Of course I had the sense to try (and fail) at organized sports and I happily passed time in more useful extra-curricular school activities involved with business or science. But I cannot deny my real passion was something wholly unpalatable to most – most inhabitants of suburbia anyway.

Of course, suburbia keeps secrets. That is what it is designed to do with similar houses, similar families, similar jobs, similar hobbies, and in fact, maybe the same lives. So it was strange when I realized we all keep secrets. I remember, bored with a piece of easy chemistry homework, staring out of my window and seeing a car park opposite my house. The occupant, dressed in a dark blue suit of a style I would later know was common in the city (the place the ‘suburbanites’ wish to make it rich) left his car and seemed to creep up to the door of number 324. I was fascinated with the doorstep exchange as Mrs Wilk first tried to negotiate with the stranger then finally started shouting. I couldn’t make out her words but my heart pumped with seeing a little bit of true passion in this manicured wilderness. The well-suited man kept up his ministrations but Mrs Wilk finally got rid of him. As he left for his expensive car her body language betrayed the meaning of the meeting as she looked desperately for neighborhood witnesses. He was a lover? Or a co-worker? A betrayed relative? But it didn’t matter exactly what, her secret was out: she had a secret.

Mrs Wilk was not a beautiful woman but I fantasized about her that night. I imagined I had her secret and that I knew the man in the rich blue suit. More, I had the paperwork that proved her infidelity or her dark secret. It was easy to think of the suburban housewife on her knees in front of me, begging, pleading for me to keep the secret. ‘Sure, but take your top off.’ ‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’ ‘Show me your tits Mrs Wilk,’ ‘I’ll stay quiet if you suck it Mrs Wilk.’ The fantasies were endless and they quickly got explicit. If I am honest, there has never been any controlling them.

So maybe I was forced by my psyche, my fetish, and maybe I had no control. But critically I turned my desires into action. With the dedication I showed to the periodic table or to American history I turned to my dark desires.

Surveilling a neighborhood is not difficult. If you pretend to do homework for 5 hours a day in your room, if you pretend a telescope is for the stars, if you can sneak out of your house at 1am, if you can take any and all neighborhood pocket money jobs going, and most importantly, if you can keep meticulous notes of everything you see and hear, it’s not difficult. I won’t deny it was and is an obsession. If you pay $300 for the latest mini-camera, or a piece of software to hack emails, it is certainly an obsession, especially for a high-school boy.

So I got to know people’s secrets, or more particularly, women’s secrets.