Warning: This story is pure fiction, written solely for your enjoyment. Do not attempt to recreate anything described in this story.
Johnson received the first phone call at 8 o'clock on a Sunday morning. It was only by chance that he was already awake at that time, having been woken up by his neighbours having a row.
"Hello?"
"Tom Johnson?"
"Yep that's me."
"If you want a juicy story, head to the Boulevard Hotel room 106. The key is under the door. Take your camera." With that, the caller hung up.
Johnson raced for his camera. This was the kind of tip-off that reporters dreamed of. Johnson usually specialised in celebrity and racy scoops; it was not that uncommon for him to receive such calls. He found his digital camera and began dressing in a whirlwind of activity.
Half an hour later he was jogging up the stairs of the hotel. He kneeled down outside room 106 and tugged the key out from under the door. He unlocked the door, and slipped quietly inside. The room was dark, with the curtains drawn. Johnson flicked on the light and took in the extraordinary scene.
The room was relatively small with a double bed in the middle. The duvet was discarded, hanging off the bed. On the bed, on her back, was a naked woman. Her face was obscured by a combination of a sleeping mask, a ball-gag in her mouth, and ear protectors over the top of her head. Her hands were bound together and tied to the bedpost by her head. Her legs were bound closely together in several places. There seemed to be something shiny between her legs. A paper banner had been hung on the wall above the bed, and daubed on it in blue paint was the stark message 'I FUCKED HER HARD AND SHE LOVED IT'.
Johnson moved round to the side of the bed that the woman was facing. There was a blue stripe of paint between her breasts, and the word 'SLUT' had been painted on to her stomach. He could now see the clear tape that began at her navel, went straight down over her pubic bush and continued between her tightly closed legs. Even before he had consciously thought about doing so, Johnson had instinctively begun taking pictures. He photographed the wall and this side of the helpless sleeping woman before turning to look around the room.
The bedside table had an open box of condoms on it, and a strident red bra was caught on the corner of the table. The matching panties were strewn on the floor, and the rest of her clothes were behind the door. Snapping away, Johnson moved round to the other side of the bed. He could see now that the reason for the tape - which extended up to the small of her back - was to hold in the twin dildos in her vagina and ass. Johnson had pictures of it all. He put his camera back in his bag; he could not remember taking it out in the first place. Reporter's reflex, he thought to himself.
Johnson peeled back the mask on the woman so that she would be able to see and then gently shook her awake. She blinked open her eyes and looked at the man in front of her. Her surprise at seeing him was completely replaced a few seconds later by shock at her predicament.
"What's happening? What have you done to me?"
"I didn't do anything. I'm Tom Johnson - a reporter. I just found you like this. Here, let me help you." Johnson fumbled with the handcuffs that attached her hands to the bedpost. She began rubbing her wrists as soon as he had freed them. She looked down and reddened as she saw what was written on her stomach and realised that she was naked.
Johnson began to undo the bindings on her legs, but she placed her hand on his to stop him. "I've got it," she told him, and untied her own legs while he stood nearby, with a pretence of not watching. She stood up awkwardly and quickly snatched up her clothes from around the room.
"Do you want me to call the police?" Johnson asked as the woman disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
"No!" she called back shrilly. "No police. This is so embarrassing."
"So what happened?" Johnson called through the door.
"I - I don't remember. My head is all funny." The woman returned from the bathroom with a bag that she must have left in there. For the first time she caught sight of the banner above the bed, and her face went from red to white. "Oh god," she said, and sat down on the bed.
"Are you ok?" the reporter asked.
"I'd like if you could go now, Mr. Johnson."
"Sure." He made it to the door before she spoke again.
"Are you - are you going to write a story on this?"
"I imagine so."
"Will you include my name?" she asked, panicking.
"I don't even know your name," he pointed out. "I promise to include nothing that will identify you."
"Thank you - I guess."
Just as Johnson reached for the phone to ring his editor, it rang.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Johnson." The reporter instantly recognised the voice from the previous week. "Did you like my tip-off?"
"Yes. Did you do that?"
"Does it really matter as long as I provide you with tip-offs?"
"You've got another one?" Johnson asked, already reaching for his camera.
"I will do tomorrow. But if you want me to continue giving you them, I want something in return."
"What's that?"
"Photographs. I want the photographs of last time before I'll give you this next tip-off. The same for the future too."
"How do you know I even took photos last time?" Johnson asked.
"I don't. But if you didn't, you won't get the next tip-off, so for your sake I hope you did."
"Why didn't you just take some yourself?" The voice on the other end of the phone laughed at the question.
"That would be... no challenge. Besides, I'm sure you take better pictures than I would." The man on the other end of the line went on to give an email address to send the pictures to. Johnson emailed them all off later that day, and set his alarm for early the next morning.
With that instruction, Johnson was dashing across the city again.
This room was larger than the last. A double bed with foreboding black iron bedposts was the centre of attention in the room; bound to the bed was a red-haired woman. Her legs were split apart and tied to the top of the bed posts, forming a V that channelled Johnson's attention to her shaven pussy and then up her round chest and flattened breasts - divided by a stripe of blue paint - to her arms that were tied to the far corners of the bed. Like the last, this woman was blindfolded. However she appeared to not be gagged or deafened.
His camera did not stop clicking, taking shot after shot as he moved closer and around the side of the bed. The woman was asleep, but her mouth was held open by a shining steel ring two or three inches in diameter. Her head was to one side, drool lining her cheek as it ran down onto the bed.
Johnson looked round the rest of the room. On a paper banner above the bed, 'SHE COMES WHEN SHE SWALLOWS' had been written in blue paint. Next to the door there was a row of coat-hooks. Neatly hung on the hooks were a blouse, a skirt, panties, a bra and a pair of socks. A pair of ladies' shoes were on the floor below the clothes.
Johnson pushed the blindfold from her eyes and began shaking her awake. She opened her eyes, looked at the man in front of her, and then looked down at her bound body. She could not form words with the large ring-gag occupying her mouth, but the look in her eyes demonstrated her shock and fear.
"I'm not going to hurt you. I just found you like this," the reporter tried to explain, but the woman didn't seem to register what he was saying. At first he thought it was because of her shock, but then he looked closer at her ears and saw that she had ear-plugs in, which he duly removed.
"It's ok, I won't hurt you. I just found you. I'll get you free." The woman calmed slightly, and let him untie her hands. She began removing the ring from her mouth while he unbound her legs.
"So you just found me like this?" she asked, in between making strange faces to exercise her stiff jaw.
"Yes. Do you remember anything that happened?"
"No. Not a thing. Just waking up here."
"Do you know what your name is, that sort of thing?"
"Yep - I'm Rebecca. I just can't remember how I got here. Who are you anyway?"
"I'm a reporter."
Her face turned white. "Oh my god. Are you going to put this in a newspaper?"
"Magazine. I won't include your name or anything." Johnson braced himself for her to shout at him - he was used to such things by now - but instead she was looking down at the blue stripe between her breasts.
"What the hell is this about?"
"It's his trademark. The guy who did this to you."
"Guy... do you think he raped me?" The situation seemed to be slowly dawning on Rebecca.
"I don't know. It's possible he did something else instead," Johnson replied, pointing to the banner on the wall behind her. Rebecca turned and saw it for the first time.
"Oh god," she said. When she turned round again her face was reddening. Johnson did not need his reporter's deductive skills to know that the banner told the truth.
"I think I'd better go," the reporter said, recognising that he was not going to find out anything more. "Here's my card if you want me to make a statement to the police."
"Thanks, but I don't think I'll be going to go to the police."
Warning: This story is pure fiction, written solely for your enjoyment. Do not attempt to recreate anything described in this story.
Johnson should not have been surprised when the police turned up at his door the day after the magazine was published, but he was.
"Mr. Johnson?"
"That's me."
"We'd like to talk to you about the Blue Stripe case."
"Ah. Come in." Johnson led them through to the sitting room.
It turned out that neither of the victims had gone to the police, who were therefore quite surprised to read in a magazine about a crime spree that they knew nothing of.
"So why didn't these crimes get reported?"
"The victims were quite embarrassed at the time, so I imagine that was a factor in them not coming forward." Being a reporter, Johnson was used to talking to police and was easily bored by their questions.
"Why didn't you report them?"
"I didn't think it was my place to interfere."
"Yet you were happy to write an article on them."
"The public has a right to know about this danger."
"So you think it is a dangerous serial rapist?"
"For all I know the women consented to kinky sex but just weren't freed afterwards," Johnson pointed out. He had no desire to get the police involved in a story that so far had been exclusive to him.
"Your story says it was rape."
"My story is designed to get people reading. Sex sells, danger sells, both together sells even better. So are you going to investigate these crimes?"
The two offices glanced at each other. "To be honest Mr. Johnson, so far we have two victims, neither of which want to press charges, we're not sure what the crime is exactly, we didn't have chance to examine the crime scenes and we have no leads. So we would like you to try and convince these people to press charges. If you can find them again that is, or if you should happen to somehow find another such person in the future."
"I can certainly do that," Johnson told them. He held back a smile; the cops weren't interested. The story was still exclusively his.
The banner on the wall above the bed read: 'IT'S NOT JUST PORN STARS THAT DO ASS-TO-MOUTH'. Johnson began taking photographs of the scene, adding to his collection of the previous women. Despite being advised to destroy them, he had kept a backup in a safe place as well as other copies. It was his reporter's nature to never destroy anything that might be useful for a story.
Johnson removed the man's gag, blindfold and ear-plugs - he was getting good at this - and then gently shook the man awake.
"Hey buddy, wake up." The man opened his eyes. He looked completely dazed. "I just found you here. You're a bit tied up, I'll help you," Johnson said, wondering how much the man was taking in.
"How did I get here?"
"You tell me. Although I suspect you won't remember anything."
"No, my head is swimming. So who did this to me?"
"There's been a spate of these things. I'm not sure who did it, but he's done it before." Johnson finished untying the man and helped him sit up. The man noticed the banner above the bed.
"I did that?" he asked incredulously.
"Again, you tell me. I'm afraid to say though that the banners may be right." The man looked slightly disgusted at the thought of what he might have done. "So look," Johnson said, deciding to make a token effort at doing the right thing, "do you want me to call the police?"
"No, no way! No-one really knows I'm gay, let alone them knowing about this! Will you keep it quiet?"
"There's a bit of a problem there. I'm a reporter."
"A reporter!"
"I could write about it but leave out your name. I'm not sure though - my editor is pretty pushy." Johnson would leave out the man's name anyway, but he wanted it to make it sound like he was doing the man a favour.
"Please, don't mention my name. I'll give you money if that's what you want."
Johnson smiled at the man's offer. "Not money. I need... a sample."
"You were right - they had been drugged. Twice over in fact."
"Twice?"
"Yes. An interesting combination in fact. One is a drug that attacks the brain. It usually has a negative effect on the short-term memory. The other drug is simply a strong sleeping pill."
"So the overall effect is to give them amnesia and knock them out?"
"Roughly speaking, yes."
"How much of their memory would be wiped? And will they ever regain it?"
"At least the previous twelve hours, at a rough guess. Maybe twenty-four, maybe up to thirty-six. Without the sleeping pill, it's possible they could have regained the memory. But I suspect that having taken the two together, they will not regain it. Apart from that, there should be no permanent ill-effects. Not that I would be happy to declare such drug use safe however."
"Got it. Thanks."
"Mr. Johnson." It was the blue stripe source. "Before I give you this week's location, tell me - do you prefer one per week or one every two weeks? I know your magazine is bi-weekly, so I wondered."
"One a week is fine," Johnson said cautiously. The man on the other end of the phone had never asked such questions before.
"Ok. And am I right in thinking women make better copy than men?"
"Yes, I'd say that's true."
"I'll bear that in mind. It's not always within my control though - men are easier."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Never mind. I enjoyed your article. Shame about the lack of pictures, but I've been getting them anyway of course. I think you'll like today's little adventure. Upmarket this time; the Three Trees Hotel, room 603. Goodbye."
The hotel room was much larger than the previous ones, with a four-poster bed. Johnson could hear muffled yelps coming from the woman in the bed. He approached it and found that she was being subjected to a complicated form of torture that took him a minute to figure out. His reporter-like detachment, born of visiting crime scenes in a previous job, meant that it did not occur to him that he should free the woman first.
A metal pole - made up of several smaller segments bolted together - had been attached to the top of the four poster bed, running straight down the middle of it. There were two bundles of towels wrapped around the pole, containing inside them - Johnson surmised - big blocks of ice. The effect of the towels was presumably to delay the release of the melting water; the towels would have soaked the initial melting for some time, probably a few hours.
One piece of string hung from the bundle suspended over her groin, with a weight on the end that kept it vertical. Two pieces of string, similarly weighted, were hung from the other bundle that dangled over her breasts. Water was slowly running down the pieces of string and dripping from the weights at the end onto her breasts and vagina. Her body was kept in place by cuffs on her ankles and wrists, but she was primarily stopped from struggling by some more fiendish bondage.
The woman had pierced nipples, with rings through both of them. These rings were tied to unstretchable metal wire that attached to the underneath of the bed, effectively keeping her nipples in place. She did not seem to be able to move them at all - without any pain, anyway - from the path of the dripping ice-cold water. Her labia were also pierced, and rings tied with similar wire to leave her pussy spread wide open and held in place. The water appeared to be dripping on the area around her clitoris. While the wind could sway the weights slightly to vary where the water would hit, she was very effectively pinned with her most sensitive areas directly underneath the cold drips, which seemed to occur every few seconds.
Johnson began taking pictures. With the customary blindfold and ear-plugs on, she would not notice him doing so. It may be unethical, but it would guarantee his next tip-off. Johnson took picture after picture of the devilish set-up, keen not to miss any details. He had taken over a hundred pictures before he stopped.
Whereas the other victims had been asleep and generally awoke with shock, the look in this woman's eyes was one of relief when Johnson took off the blindfold, sliding it up over the blue stripe of paint across her forehead. "Thank you, thank you," she said when he removed the gag and set about untying her, careful not to dislodge the plastic sheet underneath her that had collected a fair amount of water.
"I thought it would go on forever," she said as she sat up. "It seemed like forever. And in between the dripping, I had this weird pain in my ass. From inside."
"I think I may know why," Johnson said, nodding at the banner on the wall. She turned and read its bold painted letters, 'THIS FIERY ANAL SLUT NEEDED COOLING DOWN', and only then did she become as shocked as the others had been.
"I would never - I mean I have never - I can't believe this," she babbled.
"I'm sorry," Johnson offered. He added: "Do you remember anything?"
"No, nothing before waking up being dripped on, and I've been suffering that until you got here." She looked round the room. "Am I in a hotel?"
"Yes."
"Do you work here?"
"No, I'm a reporter."
"A reporter? Then why - oh." She paused. "You're here to report on this aren't you?" she asked quietly.
"Yes. No names though, you'll be anonymous."
"I guess that's the best I can hope for," she said reluctantly. "Well, thank you at least for freeing me."
"No problem."
Warning: This story is pure fiction, written solely for your enjoyment. Do not attempt to recreate anything described in this story.
"The Grand, room 114. This time I got a friend to help out."
Johnson was still puzzling over that remark when he reached the hotel room. It was another man inside, on the bed. He was on his back, with his legs bent and drawn up to his chest, kept in place by a series of ropes. Around one leg was a pair of knickers, on the other was hung a bra. Between his spread ass cheeks was a piece of plastic that Johnson knew would be the bottom of an anal plug - a large one by the look of it. Strewn on the bed was an array of plugs and strap-on dildos, in varying sizes, all with condoms still on. Johnson didn't want to look too closely but they appeared to have been used. The man still had a condom on his penis, filled with come. His chest was adorned with a stripe of blue paint.
A larger-than-usual sign above the bed read: 'HE LICKS PUSSY AND TAKES IT DEEP - WHAT MORE COULD A WOMAN WANT? MAYBE A BIGGER PENIS AND THE ABILITY TO LAST MORE THAN 5 SECONDS!'. Johnson began taking pictures. When he finished, he removed the obligatory blindfold, gag, and ear-plugs.
"Hey buddy. Time to wake up." The man awoke with a start. He seemed less dazed than the others usually were.
"What's going on?"
"Looks like you got lucky last night, but she left you a little tied up."
"Cool," the man grinned. "I don't remember much though."
"I doubt you'll remember anything," Johnson told him as he continued freeing him.
"I can feel something in my ass," the man said. He sat up, and saw the sex toys on the bed. "Were they all used on me?"
"Guess so."
"That's a bit, erm, embarrassing."
"Wait until you see what's on the wall," Johnson said. The man turned, read it, and then looked away. Johnson knew what to do next.
"I'd best be off. Oh, I'm a reporter, won't mention your name though," he called over his shoulder as he left. It was routine by now.
Johnson found the man on his side, ankles and wrists each tied together but otherwise the only bondage was the usual stuff on his head. Hanging out of the man's ass-hole were the ends of two tied up condoms. There was one still on his dick, full of come. Two more condom ends were drooping from either side of the man's ball-gag. Johnson decided to wake the man before removing the gag, in case he choked on the condoms.
Johnson waited before the man seemed fully conscious before attempting to explain the situation. "You have two condoms in your mouth. I don't want you to choke, so I'm going to untie your hands so that you can do it." The man nodded and Johnson untied him. The man pulled the ball-gag out of his mouth, followed by two tied-up condoms, filled with come and dripping with saliva.
"I guess I must have got lucky last night," the man said with a smile as he sat up and saw the condom on his dick.
"Maybe," Johnson told him, and pointed to the wall. The man turned and saw the banner: 'WERE THEY YOURS FROM FUCKING A WOMAN, YOURS FROM FUCKING A MAN, OR A MAN'S FROM FUCKING YOU?'. The man looked horrified.
"They were in my mouth!" he protested. "And they might have been up my - or his... surely not. It's just a woman playing a joke."
"There's a couple more in your ass," Johnson said, wincing. As he expected, the man's expression worsened.
"I'd know if someone had - wouldn't I?"
"Wouldn't know myself. Not ever tried it. But it could have been the other way round by the sounds of it - you having his." The man sat silent on the bed. Johnson decided it was probably time to leave; an early exit seemed to be the best thing to do in these situations.
Warning: This story is pure fiction, written solely for your enjoyment. Do not attempt to recreate anything described in this story.
"The Sunset Hotel. Room 351. Try and stay a while," - Johnson's tip-off for the week.
Johnson opened the door to find a naked woman on what he initially mistook for some sort of exercise equipment. As he moved closer he saw that it was no ordinary equipment. The woman's torso - with a blue stripe down her back - was tied on a flat bench, angled slightly above the horizontal. Her legs dangled freely, sleep having knocked them off the perches intended for her feet. Protruding from two circles at the back of the machine were dildos that were lodged - fairly firmly it seemed - in her pussy and ass. They glistened in the light. Johnson touched one of them, and his fingers were instantly sticky. He tried to rub it off on his coat but afterwards his fingertips still slid over the camera when he tried to hold it.
Resorting to using his other hand, he moved further round. At the other end was a similar dildo in her mouth, with a small amount of drool - or was it lubricant - running down her cheek. She was blindfolded and had ear-protectors on. She appeared to be dozing, in a lighter sleep than the victims usually were. Her arms were tied to the machine, pulled vertically downwards from her body. Johnson began taking pictures; this scene was worthy of a lot of them.
Johnson jumped back as suddenly the whole thing moved. The wheels at the base of the dildos began spinning, pushing the phalluses in and out of the woman's three orifices. The woman jerked awake as she was pounded from all sides. It was only then that Johnson discovered the power cable running from the base of the contraption. He followed it to where it was plugged in - through a timer switch. It appeared to have been set to begin at 5am, and turn on and off alternately every fifteen minutes. It was now just turned 8am. The banner above the bed summed it up: 'SLEEP WELL?'. She must have been drifting to sleep each time during fifteen peaceful minutes before being rudely awakened by the machine fucking her, which it would have continued to do for the next quarter of an hour. Johnson took more shots of the machine in action before turning it off.
"Please," the woman said, muffled by the dildo in her mouth, "just make me come. I don't know why you're doing this to me, but just make me come. Just touch my clitoris. Please."
Johnson froze. It was an unexpected request like something in a fantasy; a helpless woman begging him to make her come. He considered obliging her but knew that he shouldn't. It felt very wrong, for a reason he couldn't place. Instead, he sighed and removed her ear-plugs.
"I'm afraid I'm just a reporter. I didn't do this, I'm just the one that found you."
"I don't care who you are, I just want to come. Please make me come," the woman pleaded. Johnson saw a golden opportunity.
"If I make you come, can I put a picture of you in my magazine?"
"Yes! Anything!" Tom Johnson walked behind the desperate woman, his usual impassive reporter demeanour suddenly gone. There was something very sexy about the way the top dildo was nestling between her buttocks that was sexy in a totally different way to the dildo below that splayed her labia wide open. He ran his hands down over her ass and down her thighs. "Please, don't tease," the woman told him. He relented and slid his middle finger under the dildos and onto her clitoris. He started rubbing backwards and forwards. The woman began moaning. He rubbed faster and faster and suddenly her whole body started bucking despite being tied down. She came, moaning and groaning loudly as he pleasured her.
When she had stopped shaking, he untied her.
"That was quite embarrassing," the woman said as she stood. "Not every day you find a woman begging like that is it?"
"I wouldn't worry about it - I've seen some pretty odd things during the past few weeks."
"Well, thank you for my.. relief anyway. I'd been wanting that for the past goodness-knows-how-many hours. So how did you find me?"
"I had a tip-off."
"So you're going to put my picture in the magazine now?"
"If you'd rather that-"
"No, fair's fair. I got what I wanted; you should have what you want. It might be quite fun to be an anonymous celebrity - you will block out my face though won't you?"
"Of course, yes."
"Thank you."
The next magazine went out without a follow-up story. Johnson began pouring over the previous photographs, and going through his notes, to see if he could figure out the crimes, or if he had missed any details. Every time, the hotel receptionists had only ever seen the victim, if they had seen anything at all. None of the victims remembered a thing, due to their drugging. The victim always had a blue stripe on them, and always had a blue-paint-on-white-paper banner on a wall. As Johnson looked through the pictures he noticed that the banners had been written slightly differently each time. He hadn't noticed it before, but with all the pictures together the difference was more obvious.
The reporter tried to think of any other differences. The victims were mixed gender and sexuality. Some had been shocked, some less so. In fact the woman under the ice had not really been shocked until she had seen the banner. That was a little odd, as was the attacker wanting the pictures from Johnson. The attacker was there - he could have taken them himself; the excuses he gave as to why he hadn't were surely bogus.
Johnson looked again at the banners. They were all written differently - why? If the attacker wrote them all, it didn't fit. It was as if the victim had written the banner. It was possible - none of them would remember it, but why would they write up what was about to happen to them? If they knew what was coming, why would they go through with it?
They wouldn't remember why in the morning; they would have to cope with the humiliation and embarrassment without remembering what happened. The man with the condoms would not know which of the choices on the banner was true; he would have to cope with the lack of knowledge, forced by the drugs. The ice woman would not remember her anal virginity being taken. The last woman would have been woken up by dildos that she didn't know anything about.
No-one had ever seen the attacker. The attacker needed the pictures. The banners were written differently.
What if the attacker wasn't there? What if they weren't attacks?
Johnson ran the scenario through his mind. If the attacker wasn't there, they must have done it to themselves. Tied themselves up, painted the blue stripe and the banner, taken the drugs... It didn't fit - how would they all know to paint the blue stripe and banner, which drugs to take? Unless they were coordinated - by the man on the phone. He would have posted them the drugs, told them to paint the stripe and the banner. He would only have been able to tell them all the details the day of the incident; otherwise they would remember why they were there the next morning. So they arranged it all themselves, then wiped their memory of doing so. Only the coordinator knew, so that he could phone Johnson, who would turn up and free them. The perfect 'crime'. But why?
Johnson flicked through the crimes. The first woman - with the taped dildos - and the second woman - with the ring gag - would both be found in a compromising position with an embarrassing message. That seemed stupid - unless they liked humiliation. After all, if they did get off on being humiliated, it would be the ultimate humiliation. Found by a stranger - a reporter no less - in a humiliating position with a very personal humiliating message, with no idea how they'd got there, and not sure whether they had been raped or not. Similarly, the gay man would be found thinking he had engaged in a particularly dirty practice, while also having his sexuality revealed to a total stranger.
The ice woman would think that she had lost her anal virginity - she had, but presumably not to a man; maybe a dildo instead? Her expertly crafted torture must have been of her own devising; she must have had some secret pleasure in being subjected to it. Perhaps the reason that she wasn't initially shocked was that she thought that she had tortured herself but forgotten - until she saw the poster. Maybe if she knew that she would never have fucked her own ass - except of course, that she in fact had done so - she would believe that someone else had tortured her - a better fantasy than doing it herself? Johnson's mind was spinning as he rattled through the 'victims'.
The man with all the anal devices and the embarrassing message was a case like the first three; humiliation. The last man had used the memory-blanking to his advantage, leaving him wondering if he had had sex with another man (against his sexuality) rather than a woman as he would want. Presumably all the condoms had contained his own come. Finally the last woman had left herself to be fucked by a machine, denied orgasm completely until she was forced to beg for one from a total stranger.
Case solved, Johnson realised. The magazine could not print it of course; they would lose face on a massive scale. Johnson did not even tell his editor.
Johnson did not receive another tip-off in any of the weeks to come, but he always wondered if the 'crimes' might return again in some form. Until then, the blue stripe case was closed.
Review This Story || Email Author: Some Writer