Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. Never Shit Where You Eat - Part Two The following story is a work of complete and utter fiction. It is meant for adults. If you are under 18, or under the age of consent where you live, stop reading now and do not download this story. If you have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality, please stop reading now, do not download this story, and consider getting psychiatric help. If you have already consulted a psychiatrist, please take your medications. This work of fiction is a dark tale in which an adult male rapes and murders two boys, one ten and the other fourteen. It is a work of fiction and no child was injured in the making of this story. Nobody was harmed here. Nobody could be harmed, BECAUSE THEY AREN'T NOW AND NEVER WERE REAL. If such stories offend you, stop reading now and do not download this story. If such stories are illegal where you live, stop reading now, do not download this story, and consider moving to a less repressive country. If you enjoy reading stories like this one please consider making a donation to this forum so that we can continue to enjoy sharing these stories. I really like SPECIFIC feedback on my writing (i.e., what did you like, what did you not like?). Good or bad, it helps me improve. I also like story ideas, though I can't guarantee that I will use every suggestion. If all you want is to tell me I'm a sick son of a bitch for imagining such a story, don't bother; I already know that. Email me at jordan.bradders@writeme.com ============================================ Never Shit Where You Eat - Part Two By Jordan Bradders (c)Copyright 2013 Jordan Bradders. The author reserves all rights. Permission is granted to download this story for personal use only. It may not be published in any other forum, web site, magazine, granite blocks, golden tablets, parchment, papyrus scrolls or book without my prior permission. NOTE: You will find that this story makes much more sense if you read part one first. Remarkably enough, it is called "Never Shit Where You Eat - Part One." It can be found at: Dr. Bruce Townsend smiled benevolently as the room filled with the men and women he knew he would never come to think of as "colleagues." A very popular professor, he'd cultivated that sincere looking smile while still in High School. It masked the utter contempt he felt for his fellow professors, assistant professors and associate professors. Even the graduate assistants were present today; they were traditionally invited to the last department meeting of the academic year. Looking at one of them, a very young looking Ph.D. candidate in Criminology, he reflected that he'd love to rape and murder him. His smile never wavered. He called the meeting to order as the minute hand clicked to 12. Punctuality wasn't just important to him; his students laughed nervously that it seemed more like a fetish. Anyone arriving after the start of the class or meeting would be required to stand at the back, sitting only if there was a break. Worse, they would incur the Department Chairman's wrath, expressed in so many subtle and not-so-subtle ways. Most learned to never be late. His mind wandered as he listened to a report on a rejected grant proposal. He already knew what he needed to say to the disappointed tenure-seeking assistant professor, assuring him that it was not his fault and encouraging him to revise the application and resubmit. He reflected that a trained monkey could do his job if only he could speak. He found himself thinking of the cute little neighbor boy who had been driving him to levels of passion he knew to be dangerous. About eight years old, the slightly built brown haired boy stood about four feet tall and looked like he'd be blown away by a strong gust of wind. `Just my type,' he thought as he made a mental note of a mistake made by one of the graduate assistants that had led to the loss of several million dollars in grant money. `Her major professor,' he thought, `will have to be dealt with.' Returning to his reverie he couldn't help but compare this latest boy to the first. `Bobby Jacobsen' he thought as he felt a rise of positive emotions. He had raped and murdered the ten-year-old boy when he himself had been only fourteen, but he thought of him now with nothing but affection. He and his Boy Scout troop had volunteered as part of a search party looking for the missing boy. He often said that experience had led to his career in law enforcement. He'd attended Bobby's viewing and funeral after his body was found, right where he'd left it some six months before. As part of a school service club he'd even helped Bobby's widowed mother with chores such as mowing the lawn, but that had lasted only a few weeks. This boy looked just like young Bobby. After lunch he met with a group of criminalistics graduate students for a seminar on the uses and misuses of DNA evidence. He shuddered at the thought of what might have happened to him had the technology to collect, analyze and match such evidence existed 40 years before. Looking at his young students he considered how differently his life might have turned out. `I would probably still be an expert on criminology' he mused, `but it would be more experiential than academic.' He had a free hour after the seminar and spent it looking at his day planner for the next month. He was scheduled to give the keynote address at a law enforcement conference in Las Vegas. `Cops love me,' he thought sardonically. A crowded tourist city, Las Vegas would provide lots of opportunities to slip away. He would be able to find the right child, grab him, have his fun, and be back to the conference before he was missed. An expert on evidence collection, he knew how to cover his tracks. If he planned it right he might be able to make it look like the deed had been done while he was on the dais speaking to twelve-hundred police officers, prosecutors and judges. `Hell,' he thought. `I might even be brought in to consult.' That was all the preparation he needed. His hobby was, he reflected, very low tech, requiring almost no equipment. He knew that he could obtain everything he needed in any Wal-Mart. Condoms to prevent the deposit of his DNA in or on the victim's body. Sunglasses to obscure his face and protect his eyes from the bright Nevada sun. Cotton and latex gloves. He had pioneered the evidentiary use of "glove prints" in court. He usually wore and promptly destroyed leather gloves, but such would surely draw unnecessary attention in Las Vegas. Instead, he would wear a thin cotton layer under latex gloves. That would prevent both transfer of his fingerprints through the latex onto surfaces and leaving prints on the inside of the gloves. He was a very cautious man, but he knew that the recent spate of fictionalized TV programs that had begun with "CSI" in 2000 were just that: fiction. Almost none of the techniques used on those programs were possible, let alone practical. His simple precautions would be quite enough unless he was caught in the act. He continued to start each day watching the neighbor boy walk past on his way to school until finally it was time to leave for the airport. His trip was uneventful; in just a few hours he'd traveled more than halfway across the country and was safely ensconced in his hotel room. Promised a good tip, the courtesy van driver had been happy to stop at a Wal-Mart so the tired traveler could pick up some things he'd forgotten. The professor was ready. The next morning he met with the conference planner and checked out the room to ensure that he understood how the sound system and projector worked. Then he was free to "play tourist" until that evening. The professor took advantage of that time to look around the immediate vicinity, looking for places that might be easy hunting grounds, as well as secluded places where he could practice his "art." Ideally, these would provide convenient places to dispose of a small body, as well. He was back in the hotel in time to shower and change for his dinner with the conference organizers, including the Chief of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department and Daniel Holstein, the criminalist on whom the "Gil" Grissom character on CSI had been based. The two criminalists passed the time getting acquainted and commiserating about the so-called "CSI effect," which some said made it more difficult to prosecute even the simplest crimes, since every jury seemed to expect the same level of forensic evidence they saw each week on the fictional program. This effect was to be part of the professor's keynote address the following morning. He was also scheduled to conduct a series of concurrent workshops over the course of the three day conference, but would have plenty of time to sneak away between sessions. His keynote speech was well-received and he found himself mobbed by police officers. He wasn't surprised when some of the grizzled veterans asked him to autograph copies of one or another of his textbooks. This was, after all, his world, and he was something of a celebrity. He conducted the first of his workshops immediately after lunch then went for another walk. This time he struck paydirt. Only a few blocks from the hotel he found a small playground in which dozens of boys who fit his profile were at play. Though it was only a few blocks from "the strip," this was not the nicest or most affluent neighborhood in the city. He knew that would work in his favor. A large storage building stood in one corner of the park. His expert eyes quickly determined that the building had not seen regular use for some time. Using his camera phone he took a picture of the padlock and started thinking about the extra supplies he would need. After spending a few minutes watching the children at play he made his way back to the hotel and arranged another trip to Wal-Mart. That night he returned to the deserted park. He used a small bolt-cutter to remove the old padlock and replaced it with one of his own. Then he treated the hinges with WD-40 and slowly strolled out of the park. Afer dropping the cutting tool in the bed of a handyman's pickup truck, he declared himself ready. The following day he slipped away from the conference after his 9AM workshop presentation. He was half a block away when he spotted him. He was perfect. About ten years old, he was almost the spitting image of Bobby, though perhaps with a slightly darker tan. Not wanting to be too obvious, he angled away from the boy and took a seat on a shaded bench. Observing him for a while he saw that he was dressed shabbily and was definitely alone. There were only two other adults in the park and neither had so much as glanced at the boy. It was time to move. The criminologist knew better than to use the old "Can you help me find my lost dog" ploy. That had been practiced in far too many "Stranger Danger" classes. Instead, he used a method that he knew never failed with boys. "Hey kid," he said. "Do you know what that building over there is?" He turned toward the storage shed but didn't gesture, not wanting to draw attention to himself from any adults who might be looking his way. The boy looked in the direction of the shed. "I don't know." He stared at the shed, curious as to why the man was interested. "Okay," he said. "I think I heard some kind of howling noise coming from it. I'm gonna go take a look. You better stay here." No boy, he knew, could resist investigating something as mysterious as "a howling noise." Especially if an adult said he shouldn't. He walked toward the shed, paying no attention to the boy but almost certain he would follow. This time, though, he was wrong. The boy didn't follow. He ran ahead and was listening at the door when the killer sauntered up. The boy wasn't tall enough to look in the window, which was five feet from the ground and covered by a heavy wire mesh. He looked up as the professor peered through the dirty glass, seeming to pay no attention to the boy. After confirming that no one could see, he turned to the boy, his expression relaxed. He struck out at him with his fist, knocking him out cold with a single blow to the side of his head. A feeling of calm engulfed him as he unlocked the door and pulled the boy inside the well house. He stripped off the boy's filthy clothes and used his shirt and briefs to bind him hand and foot, bent around a large pipe, his buttocks in the air. Then he used his socks to gag him. He almost salivated at the sight of the boy's exposed ass. He pulled off his own clothes and piled them by the door, and waited for the boy to wake. Raping an unconscious boy would, after all, be no fun at all. He was hard instantly when he saw the boy's terrified eyes a few minutes later. Stepping forward, he put on one of the condoms and rubbed his hard cock all over the boy's face. His voice husky, he said "I'm gonna fuck your brains out, boy. You know what that is?" He didn't wait for an answer but walked around behind his latest victim. He moved his gloved hands over the smooth skin of the boy's rounded buttocks. He hadn't used lubricant the first time and that had become part of his "pattern." He couldn't even use saliva as that could provide a DNA sample. That made it harder and much more painful for the boys, but it was part of the excitement for him. He forced one finger into the boy's tight little anus, then a second, and then a third. He could hear the boy sobbing and whimpering through the dirty sock in his mouth, but that just turned him on that much more. He tried to force in a fourth finger, but it just wouldn't fit. He had every intention of splitting the boy open, but not with his fingers. Stroking his cock a few times to get it nice and hard, he pushed it against the boy's little hole, using his much greater weight and strength to force it in. The boy screamed into his gag as the big head popped past the boy's anal sphincter. He thrust into the small body over and over, his own excitement mounting to fever pitch. It took less than a minute for him to cum, and then he leaned down to kiss the back of the now unconscious boy's neck. He looked around to ensure that his clothing and that of the boy were by the door, out of the line of fire. Then he flipped open his knife and used it to cut the boy's throat from ear to ear. He made a point of using the minimum amount of motion, wanting to avoid throwing "cast off" blood across the room. Feeling nothing, he watched as the boy bled out, the bright red fluid flowing into a conveniently located floor drain. He searched the boy's belongings. His pockets were empty but for a few stones and a length of string, whick he slipped into his pocket. He found a name written in the waistband of the jeans: "Scotty." He wondered if that was his real name; surely the pants could have been hand-me-downs. `I'll have to keep an eye out for news coverage tomorrow,' he thought as he slipped into the woods. He arrived back at the hotel with 30 minutes to spare before lunch. He went to his room to shower and change, then made a point of talking with as many conference attendees as he could, several times mentioning extended conversation he claimed to have had with other attendees and speakers. He was sure he hadn't been missed. That night he couldn't sleep. There had been no coverage of the story. Neither a body found in a pump house nor a missing child. Feeling out of sorts, he went for a walk. Though he was an expert on criminal investigation he couldn't help himself; he walked past the park. The proverbial "criminal returning to the scene of the crime." It was obvious, though, that the body had not been found. In fact, there hadn't even been a new report about a missing child. He was walking back toward the hotel when an older boy approached him. He was young looking but carried himself like a young adolescent of fourteen or fifteen. He was clearly a street hustler and was offering himself cheap. The professor was torn. He wasn't ordinarily attracted to boys this age, but he found the serendipity intriguing. Besides which, the boy had seen him in the park and could become a witness. He nodded his head. The boy said "There's a place I use." Amazingly, he turned and walked toward the pump house. The man followed. When they arrived the boy pulled a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. It went in but didn't turn. The boy bent to the task. "The lock's a little rusty. I'll get it in a minute." He didn't. The professor hit him in the side of the head with his fist, as he had so many smaller boys. He went down like the proverbial sack of potatoes. The killer reopened the door and pulled the teen inside. He quickly put on his gloves then stripped off his clothes. When the boy woke up, he was tied exactly as the younger boy had been. In fact, he was on top of the smaller corpse. He tried to scream, but his sock had been jammed into his mouth and tied in place with his belt. The professor stood in front of him and said "What're you willing to do to live, boy?" The boy's eyes stared up at him. Talking around the dirty sock, he mumbled "Anything. I'll do anything." The professor smiled and held his penis in front of the boy's face; then he held his knife in front of the boy's eyes. "I'm going to take your gag out. If you scream, I'll gut you and you'll die a long horrible death. Got it?" The boy nodded emphatically. This was a street kid. A hustler. He'd do whatever it took to stay alive. But the professor also knew the boy would kill him given half a chance. The professor removed the gag and ordered him to suck his cock. When the boy lifted his head and opened his mouth, the man slapped him and reinserted the gag. "You don't think I'm going to put my cock into that open cesspool you call a mouth. Do you? Who knows what's been in there." Laughing, he walked around behind the boy and looked around the pump house. Spotting a long-necked bottle, he forced it into the teen's ass. The boy's screams were muffled by the gag, but still clearly audible. He reached between the teen's legs and grasped his testicles. The boy screamed when he squeezed and twisted them, but the man quickly grew bored with this game. He knew he couldn't stay here all night, but was having fun with the teen. A big smile on his face, he said "What to do? What to do?" Nodding as if in answer to a command, he opened the knife and stretched the boy's penis and scrotum back between his thighs. The very sharp knife made short work of cutting off the boy's genitals. The boy was screaming nonstop now, apparently in agony. He leaned down and forced the teen's penis into the smaller boy's anus, He waved the scrotum in front of the teen, then dropped it to the floor where he could see it. Though he felt nothing for the boy, the professor knew he had to get back to his hotel. He gripped the boy's hair and pulled his head back, then used the knife to cut his throat from ear to ear. The boy fell silent. The professor surveyed his handiwork. He nodded approvingly at the two boys' bodies, stacked one on top of the other. `This is going to be a big story,' he thought as he let himself out and relocked the padlock. He returned to the hotel, showered, and carefully inspected the clothing he'd been wearing for blood. None was visible, but he knew he would dispose of every item as soon as he could. Then he went to bed and slept like a baby. The rest of the conference was uneventful. He checked CNN in the terminal when he arrived home, and the story had not yet broken. `I guess the bodies haven't been found yet,' he thought. `When they are, the media will go nuts!' The next morning he didn't wait to see the neighbor boy walk by en route to school. He was safe, at least for the time being, and so was the professor. ======================================================================= If you are interested in reading more about the professor and his adventures, please email me at jordan.bradders@writeme.com and let me know. I'm always interested in story ideas, as well, though I can't promise to use them. My characters definitely have minds of their own!