The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 3 (Part 1)

If you need a refresher, you can find the first two episodes collected here: https://www.gayspiralstories.com/newSeries/show/216537


With no leads to be found, and with my two primary victims gone, I had nothing to do but return to the scenes of the crimes, in order to find something I could use to try and find this Bruiser, or at the very least, to figure out where either Ray or Bernard had gone to, so I could get them back and get to the bottom of what had happened to them both. Things at the precinct were going south quickly. The media was hounding us, and it was clear that the brass was looking for someone to blame–and presently, I was the only one left who could be seen as having any real responsibility for the mess this case was quickly becoming. It was good to get out of there for a bit, but going back to Bernard’s home, and going back to that storage container especially, were difficult for other reasons.

Do you know how, when you’re trying not to think about something–something bad, like a traumatic memory, or some shitty thing you did to someone–that trying to not think about it always seems to make you think about it more? That forgetting something isn’t something you can really do, consciously? Down in that basement, where we’d found Bernard chained to the wall, I just kept seeing him there, thinking about him, naked, thinking about what I could have done differently, and wondering what in the world had happened to him to just make him snap like that. But mostly I thought about that evening when I’d come here, after that interview, and I’d…I’d wanted to fuck him.

More than fuck him. I’d been so furious with him, for blowing apart my case like that, especially angry now that everything else was falling apart on me, angry at him for lying about his past, angry at him for…for so much that I couldn’t even blame him for. Angry at myself for not being able to save him, angry that I hadn’t dragged him back down here and chained him back up, chained him here were he could have been…safe.

How fucked is that. I was thinking about putting him back down here, thinking about chaining him to the wall and fucking him, fucking him day and night, abusing him over and over because…because I don’t know why! It was just a thought–no, more than a thought, just a need, or a delusion that seemed to follow so logically from one thing to another, that even though I knew it was immoral, and wrong, and fucking monstrous, but I couldn’t make myself stop thinking about it, no matter how hard I tried. The harder I pushed against it, the hornier I became, and if I gave in and even started to consider it, it would worm in deeper, and I…I jacked off down there, in the basement, jacked off thinking about him, how I should have kept him down here, down where a slave like him belonged, that I shouldn’t have missed my fucking opportunity to make him mine. If I’d made him mine, he would have had to tell me everything. He’d have to be honest, but I’d…I’d let him go like an idiot. He could have been mine, but I’d been too stupid to see it.

I left, and the thoughts came with me. I couldn’t get them to quiet down–the only thing that seemed to help at all was jacking off, but they’d return after an hour or so, stronger than ever. I went for a drive, telling myself I just needed some time to think, a chance to clear my head a bit, but without even thinking about it, I ended up driving down to the docks, back to that abandoned warehouse, finding my way to the taped off shipping container. The doors had been closed and relocked, and after I opened it, it smelled nearly as strong as when we’d opened it the first time, but now, it didn’t seem to bother me. His musk hadn’t bothered me at all, really, since he’d ridden with me in my car back to the station. If anything…I found myself enjoying it. I felt calmer, the mania that had been gripping me since going to Bernard’s house began to ease off a bit, losing myself a bit in the tight space and the dark.

I walked past the workout equipment, trying to imagine what it must have felt like, being stuck in here. Ray hadn’t seemed upset by it, he’d been content to just workout…but there had been something else odd about this place. Bernard’s house had shown signs of being lived in. We found no evidence of anyone else, of course, but there had been new food in the cabinets and in the fridge, no dust on the table–little things. There had been someone there, even if we had no idea who. But no one could live here. There was barely space to turn around in, and no space to lie down and rest, no source of water, no plumbing, not even a bucket. It didn’t make sense–why collar Bernard down in a basement and supervise him, but go to the trouble of locking Ray in here, alone–possibly for months?

Unless it hadn’t been months. Unless he’d been somewhere else, and the rapist had only moved him here when he was ready to reveal him. But what was special about this place? Why risk moving him, when Ray could use that information against him when he got free? I supposed that Ray hadn’t exactly had the same sort of privacy as Bernard had had, since he’d allegedly been living in an apartment at the time of his disappearance, but then where had he gone in the meantime? I took a seat on the bench, and noted the weight still on the bar behind me–285 pounds of weight. There were only one or two guys on the force who could bench something like that.

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