Bob and Bobby Joe

(****, MM/F, Edgy, non-consensual gruesome torture, murder, death)

Two sickos talk about torturing and murdering women. (Approximately 3,399 words. Originally published 2023-11.)

Bob wasn't a bad guy. He just wanted to spank a girl's bare bottom. What was wrong with that?

It was Bobby Joe who was fucked up. That dude was into hardcore stuff, like hanging girls from the ceiling by their ankles with chains and whipping them with barbed wire. And that was him being gentle!

Bob didn't exactly mind that kind of thing, at least as a fantasy, but he drew the line somewhere. The biggest problem with Bobby Joe's fetish was that there was no good scenario for the girl to survive. Either she told the cops what had happened and got Bobby Joe sent to prison or she ended up mutilated with broken or missing limbs. Killing her was a mercy, really.

Bob didn't want to kill anyone. He was a nice guy. Just because he liked smacking a girl's ass didn't mean he was a bastard. Sure, he might go overboard at times, use a paddle until the buttocks were raw and bloody and every fresh whack sent up splatters of red mist, but the girl recovered. She wasn't dead.

Bobby Joe did sick stuff like suspend girls by hooks through their tits and you didn't even want to know the perverted stuff he put up their tight little holes. Bob had only heard a few of the stories: a baseball bat was one of the nicer items. He still had nightmares about the branding irons. Branding a girl's ass was one thing, but her cunt? That was going too far.

Guys like Bobby Joe gave guys like Bob a bad name. Whenever a tormented corpse turned up the media made such a big deal about it. The cops didn't even release half of the truth to spare the families and the media still thought it was sensational.

"It appears her breasts were cut off," a shocked reporter would say, neglecting to point out that the woman had been alive at the time. "She'd been whipped, too."

For months after that whenever Bob tried to suggest a girl go over his lap for a bottom warming or come to his dungeon for a little flogging play, she'd look at him like he was a scum of the earth and had just asked if he could fuck her dead body.

Geez! He wasn't a monster like Bobby Joe. He liked girls. He was nice to them. He'd buy girls drinks, even dinner and a movie if they were extra-hot. He'd get his money's worth out of her ass later, of course, but at least he usually got permission!

He wished he had the nerve to kidnap strays the way Bobby Joe did. That bastard had it down to an art. He'd scoop them up in his black van like it was nothing. His dungeon was an old horse barn he'd retrofitted, converting the stalls into cells so he could house six girls at once. Not that he ever had that many. Three was the most at one time, as far as Bob knew.

That was a pretty cool concept: when one girl was worn out or in too bad of a shape to be responsive and interesting, you could just switch to torturing another girl. After a few days when the first girl had recovered, you could give her another session.

Since Bob had to make do with willing participants, his stock was more limited than Bobby Joe. Bobby Joe could just grab any girl he wanted. He took girls way out of his league all the time. Bob was often stuck with girls a rung or two below him. He didn't mind that much, as long as they had a nice butts. Even fat girls were okay. He liked butts with plenty of meat that could take some good discipline.

But willing girls varied in their willingness. Most were okay if he just spanked with his hand. When he took out whips and paddles and canes they balked. Fewer still trusted him enough to let him tie them up. They had good cause to be wary. It was easy for him to get lost in lust and forget the safe word. More than one girl had been pissed off at him afterward. He sometimes wished he had Bobby Joe's cold blood. Then he could just slap the mouthy bitch and really punish her and if she didn't survive the trauma, so be it. So much easier than trying to quiet a cunt claiming assault.

"It's just a little spanking," he'd say. "You were gagged. I didn't know you were telling me to stop."

Fortunately, most of the girls were sluts and/or airheads and didn't have the guts to press charges. They took it as a lesson learned. One or two tried to knee him in the balls and one sent her older brother to beat him up. That had sucked.

Bob had learned to keep his address a secret and he never gave out his last name. His cell was a burner he could dump. He only took girls to his place at night blindfolded, so they didn't know where he lived. These precautions helped, but Bobby Joe had it so much easier since none of his dates ever talked.

"What's the big deal, man?" Bobby Joe told him once. "The bitch is going to die anyway. Maybe not for 50 years, but we're all gonna die. What's worse, years of cancer taking you out at 72 or dying in your twenties having the best orgasm of your life?"

That was fucked up logic to Bob, but there was no arguing with Bobby Joe. He really believed his girls enjoyed their torture. After all, he did, so why wouldn't they?

"This girl I had last month was so wet when she squatted above my brazier she was dripping and making it sizzle even as it cooked her twat!"

Bob didn't point out that the girl had been tied to a vibrator for several hours prior. Bobby Joe was convinced the prospect of her sitting on the red-hot grill got her excited.

"I'm telling you, the smell of her ass burning turned her on!"

"I just want to spank a girl, not cook her," Bob said.

Bobby Joe laughed. "I definitely spanked her first. No point in wasting a fine ass like that. She thought the blistering I gave her hurt, but grilling those hams was ten times worse."

"Then into the swamp with the others?"

"After I'd had my fun, sure. She was all burnt up anyway. She was begging me to kill her. I was doing her a favor. I don't know why you're so squeamish."

"It's not that, it's just a waste, that's all."

"Plenty of fish in the sea. I do could a girl a night for the rest of my life and it would be a drop in ocean."

That was a creepy thought to Bob. "You don't, do you?"

"Naw. Who's got the energy for that? Just one every few weeks is usually plenty. I like to see how long I can make them last. My record is three months."

"You had a girl for three months? How'd you manage that?"

"It's wasn't easy. She was delicious to torment. I really wanted to do vile things to her. I had to restrain myself."

Bobby Joe grinned, showing his bad teeth. "It took real willpower. She was a hottie. Diving champ at the university. Body as firm as marble. She was tough and could take a lot. I flogged her for a whole day and she didn't die. Remarkable. But it sucked that it took her more than a week to recover."

"I think I remember hearing about her. Didn't she and a teammate go missing? There was talking about them being lesbians and going off together."

"Yup. Those are the ones. I got them both together. Had only planned on the one, but her friend was there when she shouldn't have been so I took her, too. She wasn't nearly so hot. She had flat tits like sunny side eggs. For fun I gave her implants. No anesthesia, of course. She got to watch the whole surgery and didn't seem to like it much."

"Fuck."

"Oh, it was better than that. My implants were Ziplock baggies filled with acid. I used the bullwhip to make her dance until the bags burst. That was hilarious. Her expression was priceless as that acid burned her!"

"You are a sick fucker, Bobby Joe!"

The bastard nodded. "Yeah. The bitch didn't last too long after that. She was weak. Had a decent ass, though. A pretty good fuck. Squirmed a lot and cried. But she was just the bonus. Her friend was the real catch. I had such good times with her.

"I could have kept her longer, but I got carried away with the chain I was whipping her with. It tore up her cunt so bad it was like fucking a pile of ground beef. But I couldn't stop flogging her. The way she reacted to that chain was too good. You know how girls end up lying there like they're dead, no response at all? I hate that. That chain was magic, though. Even with her cunt a mess she'd jerk to life as though electrocuted. I just kept going even when I knew it was too much and sure enough, the bitch died on me. Fucking whore."

"Yeah, it was all her fault, Bobby Joe."

"Exactly! Why do bitches have all those tasty parts if they aren't going to let us play with them? The bitched wanted to die. She did it on purpose, just to fuck with me."

Bob wasn't so sure the "bitch" saw it that way, but he didn't say anything. Bobby Joe was crazy and had an uncontrollable temper. Say the wrong thing and it could be your heart bleeding on a stick. Bob had no desire to end up in that swamp with all the other bodies, so he was always nice to Bobby Joe. Even if he didn't agree, he pretended he did.

The side effect with that was that Bobby Joe told him secrets. Bob got to listen to all the man's stories, stuff that fucking HBO couldn't air. Really sick stuff. Bob didn't know if any of the stuff was true, but even if only half was real, it was enough to get the guy a 100 life sentences.

The funny thing was that the cops had no clue. Bobby Joe's sexual interests were too broad, you see. Cops looked for patterns. Like that creep in Louisiana who always stuffed lit Pall Mall cigarettes into his girl's cunts. It was liking signing his name to the bodies. He always did the same thing, so the cops picked up little things from each kill and eventually got him.

That couldn't happen with Bobby Joe. Not because he was smart, but because he liked variety. He rarely did the same thing twice. He also didn't have a type. If a girl was a girl, she was his type. He fucked black girls, Chinese girls, Hispanics, white, Indian -- sorry, "native american" -- it didn't matter to him.

"I even like the oldies," he said. "Women in their 50s ain't too bad. They're tough. Not always much to look at, but boy do they scream!"

This was another difference between Bob and Bobby Joe. Bob like pretty. Bobby Joe didn't give a fuck. It was the torture that got him going, not sexy parts. Of course, he did prefer women -- hurting men wasn't the same at all.

Between his lack of a pattern with his victims and techniques, plus the convenience of the swamp for easy disposal of the bodies, Bobby Joe had been getting away with murder for more than a decade. Bob often wondered just how many the man had killed, but he never asked. He thought Bobby Joe might find it a rude question, but truthfully he didn't want to know. He tried to tell himself that those women were on Bobby Joe's conscience, not his, but that didn't always work. Sometimes he felt responsible, but he was no snitch. It was up to the cops to stop Bobby Joe, not for Bob to turn him in.

Besides, sometimes Bobby Joe let Bob play with his pets. It was fun being able to cane a girl bloody without regards to her opinion in the matter. Like one time Bobby Joe called him and said he'd gotten a two-fer. Sisters, out for a drive. He'd only expected one and suggested that Bob could spank the younger while he tried out his new cauterizing pen on the college girl's big tits.

Though Bob knew the little sister didn't have a chance, it wouldn't be him killing her. It would be Bobby Joe. Bob would just be having some fun. So while the older one in the dungeon screamed so loudly her vocal cords shattered, Bob took the smaller girl who couldn't have been more than 16 and spanked her across his lap.

He just used his hand at first, gradually upping the ante to hairbrushes, leather and wooden paddles, thongs, whips, and worse. The girl sobbed and eventually lay still, too exhausted to react.

That's when Bobby Joe showed up. He had a car battery and some cables. He clamped each titty and sent jolts of electricity through the girl. When that amusement faded he clamped them to her cunt. Just that made her scream, but when the voltage went through her she broke a tooth in her agonized thrashing.

It was too much for Bob, who could see the gleam in Bobby Joe's eyes and knew what was coming. It was one thing to be told this stuff and quite another to witness it. He noticed the big sister's howls had gone silent. That was eerie. Bobby Joe had no doubt gone too far too quick and now wanted a fresh toy.

"Where you going?"

Bob stopped. "I gotta piss."

"Well, hurry back. It's gonna get good."

The teen shrieked as fresh lightning was sent through her body. The smell of her burning labia filled the air. Bob felt sick. He saw the phone on the wall in the kitchen and considered calling 911. Instead he went home. Bob was a coward.

Another advantage to being around Bobby Joe was that it made Bob seem normal. No matter what he wanted to do to a girl, it was gentle and kind compared to Bobby Joe. A little spanking was nothing. Recreate a school principal's paddling? A joy compared to fireworks up the anus.

Even a medieval flogging at a whipping post was pleasant compared to Bobby Joe setting a girl's hair on fire and watching her run around the horse pen screeching murder. Bob could up his game and pretend to be a Roman senator disciplining his disobedient slave, the whip end tipped with bits of lead and shards of glass so that each stroke split skin and let the blood flow freely, and it was mild compared to the horrible fate that awaited Bobby Joe's women. A beating was a vacation for them.

So Bob said nothing to the authorities. It would have been so simple -- a note, an anonymous email, a tip on a phone line -- and investigators would have shown up to Bobby Joe's with a search warrant and the evidence would be overwhelming. Bob wouldn't even have to be involved. No one but him would know he'd blabbed, but he still couldn't do it. Even bastards have a code of honor. Bobby Joe was a horrible monster, but Bob couldn't rat him out.

There was a time Bob considered handling the problem himself. A tire iron to the back of the head when the guy was on his boat in the swamp and he'd fall overboard, never to be heard from again. Or a little rat poison in the man's whiskey. Even a gun wouldn't be hard. Bobby Joe had tons of them lying around.

It would have been justice, Bob knew. He'd be saving countless lives. He'd be avenging dozens of murdered women. They'd give him a medal if they found out, but Bob couldn't do that. He wasn't a killer. He was a coward. He like to spank women, that's all. He wasn't a creep, just horny and chubby red asses turned him on.

But then Bobby Joe crossed the line.

Bob had a new girl, Sabrina. She was tall and curvy, with a voluptuous ass. She had dark hair she wore in a pony tail. She was a barista at the local coffee shop and as cute as a kitten. She was only 22. She liked bad men like Bob. She liked his tats, his beard, his rough manners. When he proposed punishing her with a spanking, she was bringing him a wooden spoon and shucking down her jeans.

"Do it just like my late mama used to do it," she told him, and went across his lap. She creamed herself she enjoy the correction so much. Which mean Bob enjoyed it even more.

They met off and on for weeks. Each time the spanking and fucking was off the charts. Sabrina was sexy and stoic, and she loved to experiment. Bob was in heaven. He was falling in love.

Bob tried to keep her away from Bobby Joe's, renting motel rooms and finding abandoned buildings where they could play in private, but it was challenging. He was staying at Bobby Joe's and had no place of his own. Bobby Joe didn't even charge him rent, only occasionally asking him to do some chores like clean up blood stains or help with an abduction.

Fortunately Bobby Joe wasn't home when Bob brought Sabrina there, so the two had privacy. Fun times were had and sweet tears were shed. Her cunt and ass were fucked hard. She liked it rough. She was a great gal.

And then Bobby Joe learned of her existence and wanted a piece. "Just a little," he said. "I won't hurt her. I mean hurt hurt her. Just some play."

Bob said no. He didn't trust Bobby Joe. But the man was determined and one day Bob came home to find Sabrina in a dozen pieces on the living room floor.

"What the fuck, Bobby Joe!" he screamed. "I loved her. How could you do this?"

"Sorry, buddy. She was too much fun. The way she screamed it made me come just listening to her."

Bob hit him with the iron skillet. It was there and he was enraged. It was like the skillet had a mind of its own. Bobby Joe never knew what happened until he woke up in the swamp, his body half submerged in the bog.

He screamed for help. Bob was there, too. He couldn't help, though. He was caught up to his neck in the same sticky goo. Every movement sent the men deeper. It wouldn't be long now.

"You fucker," Bobby Joe said. "I trusted you and you fucked me!"

"I could say the same thing about you. I loved Sabrina and you took her from me."

"You don't know anything about love. You're a bastard just like me."

"I'm nothing like you,"" Bob said.

But Bobby Joe didn't respond. When Bob looked, he was alone. He understood then, for the first time, why he'd been so reluctant to stop Bobby Joe. It all made sense now. He was still glad he'd killed him. The bastard had taken away his Sabrina and deserved to die.

He wiggled and sank deeper, the muck up to his chin. This was a grim way to go, but it was fitting. He was joining all those victims rotting away beneath him somewhere. How many were there? Dozens? Hundreds?

Soon he wouldn't be able to breathe. He'd gasp and the mud would fill his mouth and lungs. He panic and suffocate. It was going to be horrific. Bob didn't think he deserved this. He just liked to spank girls. It was harmless fun. Bobby Joe was the evil one.

But Bob knew now there was no Bobby Joe. There was only Bob and he'd murdered him. Ironic, that. Then he slipped under and was never seen again.

The End