Punishment

Editor’s Note: Trigger/Content warning. While we here at The Affection Multiplier sometimes delve into so seriously dark and deviant shit, this is the first incidence of cold blooded ****. The management of this story does not in any way endorse cold blooded **** of anyone, even a piece of shit **** who preys on young girls under his care. Really. We don’t. Ok. Even I couldn’t keep a straight face while typing that. But seriously, if discussion of the entirely justified **** and **** of a piece of subhuman filth disturbs you, please skip this chapter, go take a look at videos of screaming goats or cats with cucumbers, then come back for the next chapter. ~W

The "secure location" is an old warehouse along the wharf. Ivan pulls into the warehouse, one of its rolling doors broken down, and puts the car into park. He doesn't speak. There is no need for talking.

Half an hour later, Dmitri pulls into the warehouse. Together, you and Ivan step out of his SUV and walk to the other man's vehicle. Dmitri pops the trunk, and you see the squirming form of George Smith. A black cloth mask covers his face, and his hands are bound behind his back.

Dmitri yanks the man out of the trunk and drops him on the floor like a sack of flour. The man screams, his voice muted by a gag, as he hits the concrete floor.

Ivan turns to you, asks, "How do you want to do this, Lev? We'll make sure there are no traces."

"I want to speak with him first. I want him to know it is me. Then, I want him to suffer."

Dmitri nods, removes the black mask. He pulls the gymnastics coach hard, yanking him upright and resting him against an old crate. Smith's eyes dart around, looking at each man until they come to rest on you. They widen in surprise, and you hear muffled words.

"Can you remove that gag?" you ask Dmitri. He steps forward and pulls the gag down, letting the man speak.

"Lev, what is happening? Who are these men?"

"You tell me, George," you say. Your anger flares, and you yell, "You tell me why my daughter says you fucking **** her! Tell me, George, why is that?" You cross the expanse between you, getting into the man's face, spittle flying out of your mouth and landing on his cheeks. His look of surprise turns to fear, and he begins to stutter.

"I... Lev, look, I don't know what she said, but nothing happened. I didn't do anything, I swear!"

You stomp down onto his groin with all of your might, a sickening crunch barely audible as George screams into the open warehouse.

"You calling my daughter a fucking liar, George? She doesn't lie to me. I know what she told me. Now try again." You pull your pistol from your waistband and plant the barrel on his forehead, cocking the hammer back. "Tell the truth, now, or I'll blow your fucking brains out and leave your body laying here for the rats. Don't fuck with me, George. I mean it." Ivan and Dmitri stand behind you, their faces unmoving.

George begins to cry. His legs squeeze together, no doubt still in pain from your stomp. Thick, heavy tears fall down his cheeks as he looks up to you, a begging light in his eyes. You can barely see the man through your rage-filled vision.

"Please, Lev, I didn't **** her. I swear it, man! It was consensual. She wanted it. You know how she is, always prancing around in those-" His words are cut off, as you whack him in the side of the forehead with the butt of your pistol. Then again. Blood flows down his temple, coats his cheeks.

"You piece of shit. You fucking piece of shit," you say, the words rising unbidden from you. The bottle of anger, of hate, begins to bubble over and fill your consciousness. You whip him again with the pistol. You raise your hand once more, but something stops you. A hand around your wrist.

You turn to see Dmitri, standing there. "One more, and you'll kill him. Is that what you want to do?"

Your shoulders sag, and you nod. "No, not yet. Thank you, Dmitri." You look between the two gangsters. "I want him to suffer. I want him to feel pain."

Ivan shares a look with Dmitri, then nods.

Dmitri returns to the trunk of his car and pulls out an apparatus. Something you've never seen before, although it doesn't look dissimilar to an old-school diver's helmet. Then, he pulls out a concrete block. A metal chain. An oxygen tank.

He pulls the items over to George and rests them on top of the old crate. You look at him, confused.

"This is something we reserve for our worst enemies. The diver's helm and tank, so he can breathe underwater. The concrete block, so he sinks the bottom. The chain, so he cannot escape it. The tank will last for hours, but he won't. The fish in the wharf will attack him as soon as the dust settles, eating away at his flesh, until he bleeds out. Best case, he doesn't die until the tank runs out of air and he suffocates instead, suffering the entire time."

"That..." you begin, surprised at the complexity of their methods. "That is exactly what he deserves." The cold, calculating manner with which Dmitri explains the punishment to you calms your nerves and helps to encapsulate some of your anger.

"No, please," George begins to plead, but Dmitri places the gag back in his mouth. The older man motions you in, to help. Together, you place the diver's helmet on George, locking it in place. You attach the tank to his chest and wrap it around his bank, then connect it to the helm. You go to grab the chain, but Dmitri waves you away. "Not yet," he says. "He'll be too heavy."

You nod, understanding.

Together, you haul the man out of the warehouse and to the edge of the wharf. The helmet is locked in place, and the tank is ready. Ivan appears behind you with the concrete block and chain. Together, you and Dmitri shackle the chain to George's leg and the other end to the block.

"Are you sure?" Ivan asks as you finish. You stand up, face him. The old man has a sincere look in his eyes. "There is no turning back after this, Lev. Once you do this, you will be a different man. And you will be bonded to us," he points to himself and Dmitri, "forever."

"I am sure," you say. You look over the edge of the wharf. Dark, black water roils below. You can't see the bottom. While you have the fortitude, you grab the concrete block and throw it over the edge. It strains against the chain and falls against the dock wall with a clack. You turn back to George, who is cowering beside you. You can barely hear his screams from within the diver's helmet.

With a push of your foot, you roll him into the wharf. He hits the water with a loud splash, then he is gone, as if he was never there.

You feel your last, strained ounce of innocence sink with the man. There is no turning back now, as Ivan said. You just murdered a man. It may have been justified, but it was ****. You knew you should feel something at taking a human life, but you don't. Even your anger is gone. All that is left: emptiness.