OFF-CUTS!

Substronauts Unwanted

Why would they think I could stop myself from killing those filthy bitches?

They don't think I have any self-control, why else would they write such slanderous lies in their funny papers?

I can't believe those dolts, they have to know I'm not stupid.

They've seen the photos of my handiwork.

Could an imbecile catch the precise moment before drift so exquisitely?

I don't think so.

Not with my expert timing.

Do you know of the drift?

Of course not, if you're reading this, you're probably a normie.

You live your life with blinders on.

Don't worry, almost everyone does; all the other normies.

Okay, here's an example, if you cut your arm on a rusty nail, and blood poured from you, would you cover it?

How long would you think about that wound?

Probably for a minute or two, then you'd forget about it and go about your day.

You wouldn't reopen that wound, dig it out a little deeper with your favorite paring knife, slip your fingers inside yourself, peeling back the skin to feel that little rush that you can't find anywhere else.

Have you ever woken with your sheets twisted around you, and felt a little claustrophobic?

Before you liberated yourself, did fear overwhelm you or did a strange tingling sensation run through your body?

If either of these ran through your mind, then you're a natural submissive, and if you ever succumb to these urges, you may enter the fabled dominion of subspace.

Before my girls cross the threshold to this elusive rapturous gateway, I enact my three-fold preventative method.

First, I snap a picture; second, I make sure they're fully conscious; third, I kill them.

It's a simple-sounding process when I describe it thus, although I perform those acts at breakneck speed.

For a moment, I want you to put yourself in my shoes and imagine what it takes to pull off what I have.

At first, I find a young submissive female, usually online but at times I meet them on the street, or in a bar somewhere.

Next, I take them home and make them feel at ease; "Don't worry. It's nothing sexual, just a little shoot, a couple of pictures of you trussed up. You won't need to take off your clothes, and I'll pay you handsomely to model for me."

You know, those comforting little lies to lure her in.

Don't we all want easy money?

And I know what you normies are thinking, how can I tell if they're submissives and not just desperate for cash?

I know, no, we know.

A dominant knows when they've found a filly.

We pick up on subtle tells, as a professional poker player does, the biggest of which is the shape of their eyelids as they listen.

A normie's lids move when someone speaks, but a sub won't move theirs until it's their turn to talk.

It's a subconscious thing, something they have nearly no control over, or awareness of.

But I'm aware, we're aware, and now you are too.

Next time you're talking to someone, have a look and see if you catch it; us deviant weirdos are all around you.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh, right, so after I lure her inside, I tie her up and start with a little light torture; everything's still playful at this point.

Maybe I'll tickle her bare feet a little, or lightly paddle her backside, then I'll tell her that I'll be right back with my photography gear, and I leave the room.

Truthfully, I don't have any photography gear other than my little Instamatic camera, but she won't know that.

I'll go out for a smoke, or take a piss, anything to stay out of that room for about fifteen minutes or so.

This isolation causes her fears to grow.

When I return, she's either relieved or ecstatic.

Heck, nobody's noticed that I wasn't carrying anything, not right away, at least.

After that, the torture builds slowly, until I'm pressing acupuncture needles into her exposed skin, and slapping her around a bit.

As soon as I notice her entering that drift, my camera flashes in front of her face, and I switch the lights off.

The sudden shift from blinding light to pitch-black terrifies them into looking around, and soon she's gone.

Someone's little girl becomes another photo for my album, and nothing more.

Does that sound like a deranged beast attempting to achieve sexual satisfaction through lust-filled anarchy to you?

Because to me, it sounds like a highly organized power-play that ends in death, a new art form.

A little morbid, maybe, but not 'lust-filled anarchy.'

What do I have to do to show these goddamn journalists the beauty of my transgressive creativity?

Do I need to do something extreme?

They're too detached from my work, perhaps they should model for me, so they can see for themselves.

Would my art still be the story, or my story the art?

Only time will tell.