Sex Pods

The first kill was to remove pure evil from streets. Then, I didn’t need the same big excuse to do it again, hunting sinners was good enough.

The natural response to damage is a mix of survival instinct and learned tolerance. When that tolerance grows, something shifts.

At first, they flinch. Then, they fight. Pain is not just a threshold to endure; it is a survival experience. You learn it on the field.

Bodies learn faster when trapped. When they can’t escape, exhausted, after a last shred of fight, they let it go. Then comes pleasure.

That’s an exquisite paradox. Pain is both order and destruction. The body learns from chaos, reshapes itself into something more resilient.

I’m not a serial killer. See me more as a war surgeon or a dedicated nurse. They were asking for it, and I was eager to explore the meta-sex.

Running a good business is about taking the time to do it good. A bullet in the head is not a good way to kill. But a dildo is a good weapon.

The cleaning services were also running a lucrative side job called “fuck trucks,” mainly in the old port and the red-light quarter.

I am fucking out of control. I have wanked no one off for a couple of days and miss it desperately. Wanking people off is my kink.

I offer the fever of the unknown. Sex is a drug. You know the reaction, the reason you take it. Pain is the fuel, pleasure the oxidizer.

On Sin Street, Sex Pods were a fantasy, mainly an Easter egg presumed to be a hoax. An urban legend that finally came to light.

This notebook belongs to the past. I never got caught, and I guess now most people think it’s crazy fiction, which is good enough.