Excerpt from “Pain”

Biff went in to check on David at 12:35 that afternoon and found him fast asleep.
That was good, because he needed to be undisturbed in his deeds. If there was an easier
way to take David out of the equation he would’ve used it, but drugging him seemed to
be the only viable option. The pills weren’t harmful in the least, unless you were a high
school girl that was afraid of date rape. The benzodiazepine would just leave David
incapacitated for a while. Besides, David could use some more rest. Biff hadn’t much
appreciated David’s tone this morning, although he did his best to ignore it. He had no
hard feelings toward David about last night’s events, but apparently David still harbored
some resentment. A nice pill-induced sleep might be just the thing he needed to make
him forget.
David’s natural sleep had been enough for Biff to get Brendan back into the house
this morning. He had a few of his friends keep Brendan down in the empty fighting arena
until about six o’clock this morning, and then he brought him back home. Brendan’s
broken knees were still undressed, but he didn’t appear to be in much pain at the moment.
He did appear to be quite sullen, perhaps in anticipation of what was going to happen to
him at Biff’s hands. Biff had prepared Brendan’s room for the day’s events. There was a
pool table placed in the center of Brendan’s room, complete with makeshift shackles to
keep him down. Biff had also laid out an array of instruments on the floor. He had a
branding iron, blackjack, ice pick, scalpel, and a devious looking device that looked like
the type of flog used in S&M practices. The tip of each strand of leather had been
alternately fitted with either a metal barb or a ball bearing. Since Brendan was going to
be unable to compete for at least a few months, Biff decided to make sure that Brendan
would have to heal more than just a few broken bones. He was going to bring a new
level of pain to Brendan’s existence.
Also in Brendan’s room was a hammer and four spikes. The spikes looked like
nails that had been obscenely fattened up for the express purpose of causing agony. Biff
had this set of hammer and nails at the ready in case Brendan decided to fight back. If he
didn’t accept his punishment, Biff would have to make sure that he was completely
immobile.
Upon Brendan’s arrival this morning, Biff had shackled him to the table. He
closed the door and had left Brendan to miserably contemplate his future. Biff couldn’t
risk starting in on his task for the day until he was sure that David wasn’t going to wake
up. David wouldn’t understand what it was that Biff was doing. He would no doubt
become angry and disillusioned. Now that David was safely under the influence, Biff
could start round one of the day’s activities. David wouldn’t be up for a few more hours,
at which point Biff would just drug him again. David would believe that they were pain
pills because his pain really would be reduced. It was just be reduced as a result of his
natural recovery as he slept.
Biff went to Brendan’s room. He used his key to unlock the white cover door and
he pulled it back. He exposed the iron door that kept both sound in and nosy intruders
out. He procured another key from his key ring. This one was longer and thinner, almost
like a skeleton key. Biff pushed one of the rivets aside, revealing a dark opening. The
key penetrated deep into the opening and Biff turned his hand. He heard the satisfying
swishclick of the lock letting go, and he pushed the door open.
 In a corner was a decaying body. Brendan, who had used it to warm up for Pain
during the last week, had horribly abused it. Brendan, bound to the table, was still clad in
his form-fitting black trunks. His knees were horribly swollen and discolored. Other
than that, he looked pretty much fine. Biff approached the table and looked at Brendan’s
face. His eyes were wide open and they darted around the room, trying to catch a
glimpse of what was surrounding him. Duct tape covered his mouth. There was a large
floor lamp angled over his face, but the light was turned off at the moment. Biff flicked it
on and Brendan slitted his eyes to guard against the invading light. Brendan’s face was
the clearest way that he conveyed his emotions, and Biff could see that Brendan was at
least somewhat afraid of what was happening to him. Biff hadn’t tied him down to
anything since he was a young boy, and his broken mind still held fast to some of the
abuse he endured then. Apparently, he wasn’t eager for a repeat performance.
The room was dark except for the single lamp over Brendan’s face. Biff didn’t
care for the red color scheme, and he was completely disgusted by it when the room was
fully illuminated. The glow from the red carpeting seemed to cling to his skin like blood.
Sometimes he was sure he could actually feel it on him. He needed no such distractions
at the moment. He had more pressing matters to focus on.
“Brendan, Brendan, Brendan….” Biff’s tone was one of sarcastic admonishment.
“It’s a tough situation, isn’t it?” Biff could see Brendan’s eyes trained on him as he
crossed the room. “I mean, what with you losing and all. It’s tough, isn’t it?”
Brendan hesitated for a moment, and then nodded his head.
“Sure it is. But see, losing isn’t the worst part of it. The worst part is your legs,
right Bren?”
Again, Brendan nodded.
“Good to see that we’re on the same page. But here’s where I think we disagree.
See, the legs are the worst part for you because they hurt, and they hurt bad. You can’t
walk. Hell, you probably couldn’t sit down very comfortably.” Biff bent down to the
floor, dropping his hands from Brendan’s vision. His line of sight disappeared at the edge
of the table, and Biff was operating somewhere south of there. “I think your legs are the
worst part because now you can’t fight. Now you can’t make me any money. And if you
can’t make me any money…what good are you? I mean, how useful is a broken down
car?” Biff was being deliberately ambiguous in order to confuse Brendan. He just lay on
the table and didn’t react to the question. It wasn’t as if Brendan could speak through
duct tape. Even if he could, it was doubtful that he’d be able to string together the words
needed to form a complete thought.
“A broken car is not useful at all, Brendan. In fact, it just gets in the way. Things
that get in my way, Brendan, they make me mad. But here’s the difference between you
and a car: if I get mad at the car, it doesn’t care. It can’t be punished. But you…” Biff
stood up brandishing an object. What little light there was in the room reflected off of the
object’s surface. Brendan recognized it as something distinctly metal. “You can be
punished. The fans think you don’t feel pain…but I know better.” Biff stepped forward
into the light and revealed a scalpel in his hand, shining brilliantly. “I know you feel it
just fine.” Biff saw Brendan’s muscles tense as he realized what was going on, and he
felt empowered. The power was, for him, a kind of mental ecstasy.
Biff stopped talking and set about deciding what to do first. He took great delight
in running the scalpel over Brendan’s exposed body, watching his prey jump as the tip
occasionally penetrated the topmost layers of his skin. He ran the blade down the side of
Brendan’s body very gently, not deliberately cutting Brendan yet. Biff was vaguely
aware of his own sexual arousal as the blade made its way down Brendan’s thigh, down
his shin, and over his foot. He ran the blade over the swollen and shattered joint of
Brendan’s right knee. He went up first, and then down, and then up again. Biff’s
breathing began to pick up, as did the speed of his hand. He panted and panted, nearly to
the point of hyperventilation, and then he angled the end of his scalpel into Brendan’s
knee. He felt the tip penetrate the flesh as a fork may penetrate a well-cooked piece of
chicken. Brendan attempted to sit up and the restraints dug into his skin. Biff let the
scalpel remain inside Brendan for a few more seconds before pulling out smoothly and
quickly.
Blood trailed after the blade and left a line of red fluid across the table. Biff’s
breathing slowed, but Brendan’s began to increase. Biff could hear him drawing in
hitched breaths in an attempt to block the pain out of his mind. Biff stopped only for a
moment before beginning his work again. He walked over to the left knee and placed his
blade on the flesh. Brendan stopped moving, not wanting to inadvertently impale his leg
on the scalpel. Biff pressed down on Brendan’s knee and the edge of the scalpel pierced
the puffy skin. Brendan drew in a long hiss, but the pain wasn’t nearly as bad this time as
only the edge of the knife went into his skin. Biff began to draw a circle around the cap
of his adopted son’s knee, watching as blood ran down onto the table in small rivulets.
The swelling from the torn knee caused the blood to flow freely, and the early signs of
infection began to drain as well.
Biff pulled the scalpel out and backed away for a moment to look at his
handiwork. Thus far, he’d only made two incisions. He had taken his time in making
those cuts as he knew he had a long way to go before he was through. If he worked
himself into a frenzy too early, he’d blow his wad right at the beginning instead of saving
it for the big finish. Brendan’s muscles stood out and he was breathing hard, but he
wasn’t screaming and shaking yet. Biff would slowly bring him to that point.
He walked back over to Brendan and stood next to his chest. He lightly placed
the scalpel just below the outer bulge of Brendan’s prominent lower right pectoral muscle
and then he began to draw the blade downward. He was pushing just hard enough to split
the skin and allow blood to surface. He brought the scalpel down to the waistband on
Brendan’s shorts, and then stopped. He placed the scalpel perpendicular to the straight
line he had created, and then dragged the knife in a semi-circular motion. He backed
away and looked at the letter “P” that he had engraved. There was only a small amount
of blood in the cut, so the letter was completely clear. Brendan was trying his hardest to
remain still during the cutting, and was doing a fairly decent job. Each cut was smooth
and unerring. Biff worked silently for the next ten minutes, slicing up and down
Brendan’s chest. Brendan shuttered when Biff drew the letter “I” so the letter came out
crooked, but other than that Biff had quite neatly carved “PAIN” into Brendan’s chest.
As shallow as the cuts were, they were so long that a small pool of blood had formed on
Brendan’s stomach. The lamp reflected off this pool, looking like the moon in the middle
of a crimson lake.
Biff decided to use a different instrument now. The scalpel had proven to be quite
fun for him, but Brendan hadn’t been in much pain, save for the one stab into his right
knee. The foreplay was over; now Biff was going to move on to something a little
heavier. He placed the bloody scalpel back next to the other objects and picked up the ice
pick. He walked back over to the prone Brendan O’Keefe. His eyes were closed and his
head was tilted to one side. Biff decided to shock him out of his relaxed state.
Biff could see the soft and sensitive flesh of Brendan’s armpit. Biff pressed the
business end of the ice pick against Brendan’s skin and pushed inward. Brendan’s eyes
flew open and he instinctively jerked his body away from the intruding object. The
sudden motion caused the ice pick to drop from Biff’s hand.
Brendan’s insurrection touched off an explosion in Biff’s head. He stood up in a
flash, his eyes bright with rage. His teeth were clenched together, his lips pulled back in
a wicked smile. He walked back over to the scattered tools on the floor and grabbed the
hammer and one of the spikes. It took Brendan a moment to register what was going on,
but then he began thrashing around on the table in wide-eyed terror. Brendan couldn’t
possibly have known he would’ve been punished like this, and Biff knew it. He wanted
to take his discipline of Brendan to a new high. After all, Brendan was much older now,
and it had been a long time since he had to correct him.
Biff walked over to the thrashing body on the table. He leaned his weight down
on Brendan’s shoulder to steady it. In his left hand was the spike. He jammed it down
onto the shoulder and managed to penetrate the skin slightly. Brendan was grunting
through the duct tape, but Biff couldn’t make out what he was saying. Even if he could
hear it, it would probably be nonsensical noise.
He brought his right arm back and slammed the hammer down onto the top of the
nail. It went in part way, stopping when it hit the bone in Brendan’s shoulder. He could
feel the tip of the nail scraping and squealing against it. Brendan screamed against the
tape. Biff wasn’t fazed by it, and he brought the hammer back again. He struck the top
again and the nail went in further and the bone began to split. The shoulder bulged out in
an odd and unnatural way, the bone pushing against the skin. He hammered the spike one
more time, and the head of the spike pushed through the back of Brendan‘s shoulder. His
frantic attempts to move shook both Biff and the table. The wet spots of blood splattered
all around them, dousing them both. Biff looked under the shoulder and saw that the
spike had gone into the wood of the table. One final swing and the head of the nail was
the flush against Brendan’s skin.
“Stop struggling.” Biff’s voice was calm and low. It was doubtful that Brendan
heard it over his own animalistic screams as he continued to squirm on the table.
Biff cast the hammer aside and retrieved his ice pick. Now that the temporary
setback had been remedied, he was ready to continue on with his agenda. The armpit was
a moot point now; the pain that had burrowed its way into Brendan’s shoulder would take
precedence over an ice pick. Biff decided to make use of the tissue below the ribcage. It
was soft, making it perfect for negative stimulation. Brendan wouldn’t feel the full effect
of it if he didn’t stop moving though, so Biff needed to get his attention. Nailing his
shoulder down had immobilized that quadrant of his body, but the rest of it was still quite
alive.
“Stop moving or I’ll stab you in the heart with this.” Biff placed the ice pick
slightly to the left of Brendan’s sternum. Brendan calmed himself down and Biff was
satisfied. Now he could resume.
He placed the tip of the pick against Brendan’s skin. It penetrated instantly, and
Brendan gasped slightly as he felt it enter him, but he settled himself. Biff began to very
slowly work the pick inward, millimeter by millimeter. He paused to draw it out only to
plunge it back in at a different angle, destroying new flesh in the process. Each time he
pushed the pick, more blood flowed out of the hole. He never pushed the ice pick all the
way in; he only used half of the stabbing proboscis. He could feel the tension in
Brendan’s body that came with each stab, and he reveled in it.
Biff knew that this punishment was effective, and Brendan’s reactions were his
evidence. But more than just punishment, Biff was doing this out of sheer enjoyment. It
was revenge now, revenge for the money that Brendan was going to cost him. Some may
think it a little extreme, especially over money, but Brendan also shattered Biff’s faith in
him. All of the work Biff had put into creating Brendan had blown up in his face, and he
was vengeful. He stabbed forward with the ice pick and let all five inches of it slide into
Brendan. Brendan jumped a little, but held fast, much to Biff’s surprise. Biff began to
pick up speed with his stabs whilst sacrificing accuracy and precision. Biff felt the hot
stickiness of human blood on his hand. He began driving the pick in with enough force
to move Brendan as much as the restraints would allow. Biff could hear the sounds of
pain from inside Brendan’s throat as he pumped the swollen and wet opening that his ice
pick had created. Biff could feel the tough layers of muscle and fat give way to his
probing steel rod. They bent inward, and then they snapped, allowing passage into what
lay beneath.
He slammed his fist forward one final time and held his weapon in Brendan’s
body, twitching it slightly like a nurse searching for a usable vein. He ripped his hand
away and stared at the wound. There were small puncture wounds spanning the diameter
of a silver dollar. Some of them were grouped close together leaving the flesh sagging
and ragged. A considerable amount of blood had stained Brendan’s side and was
collecting under him. Biff found the scene to be too much for him; he needed a release.
He unzipped the fly on his pants. His penis was rock hard already, and it took only a few
furious pumps before he ejaculated. The orgasm hit him with tremendous force, buckling
his knees. He released his strained and swollen penis, straightened himself out and drew
in a deep breath. He took a long look at Brendan. Blood was running from many
wounds, although the lacerations on his legs had all but stopped bleeding. There was an
eight-inch metal spike driven through his right shoulder, and there was a ragged and
bloody patch of stab wounds on his right side. So far Biff had been pleased with himself,
but he was more pleased by the fact that there was more to come. Oh yes, so much more.