Work Text:
Journal Entry No. 47
September 16th, 1987
Today, I made productive use of my lunch break (for once) and spoke briefly with Dr. Flagler. I have no need to avail myself of a psychiatrist, but I have come to find that conversing with one, under the guise of friendly conversation surrounding a field of interest is a satisfactory way of gleaning information about psychological techniques that I may make use of independently.
As I have mentioned in journal entries numbered 26, 30, 40, and 41, the distracting thoughts that seem to plague my mind are a veritable issue, yet I am not willing to discuss them with anyone. This is for good reason, as recounting them to anyone but Daniel would put our research at tremendous risk. However, despite the contents of these thoughts encompassing scientific processes that Daniel is already privy to, I find myself far less amicable to share them with him.
To put it bluntly, I need him. I cannot complete my work without him, and sharing such things would most likely result in Daniel recusing himself from taking part in any further research and testing. They involve him, in a manner that he would no doubt find disgusting, atrocious, and repulsive.
Earlier, during my aforementioned conversation with Dr. Flagler, I queried about what I ought do with thoughts that distract me from my research, aside from burdening others with them. He, most likely assuming I was talking about something work-related, perhaps the condition of a patient, suggested that I write down the contents of these thoughts. It was a rather obvious solution. As mentioned in journal entry number 30, it was also a solution I have previously pondered. At the time, I was apprehensive, given the rather graphic and indecent content of the thoughts, but after soliciting an opinion from another doctor yielded the same suggestion, I resign myself to accepting that it may be my best option.
I have never written such things before, and I never plan to do so again. However, it may be necessary, so I will attempt it, just this once.
A Reluctant Recounting of my Intrusive Sexual Thoughts:
On approximately June 8th, 1987, Daniel asked me what I plan to do once we are able to make the reagent work as intended, on full human cadavers. He was, no doubt, referring to either personal celebration, or how I plan to share the fruits of our labor with the world. This was the origination point of my more odious thoughts.
My mind fashioned a scenario. The thought of which affected me so strongly, I found myself staring at Daniel, unable to bring myself to respond. Since then, thoughts of the scenario have recurred in possibly over one hundred instances, ranging from momentary thoughts to lengthy daydreams. Most often when Daniel and myself are working in the basement together. I find these instances very distracting, as I usually excuse myself from the lab to avoid being asked about any potential deviations from my baseline mannerisms.
The scenario in question is one in which Daniel and I celebrate our true conquering of death by means of an indulgent, decadent, erotic act of experimentation. Of course, experimentation would not be strictly necessary, given that I imagine this occurring after the reagent is perfected. I suppose that the fact of it being unnecessary and excessive adds to its eroticism.
I imagine an act of trust between myself and Daniel. One so profound as to hang my own life in the balance. I imagine him stripping me of my attire, before carrying me to the (thoroughly sterilized) embalming table. In my mind, he’d be bashful and hesitant, yet possess a hidden longing to mirror me in my depravity. I would have to pay much care to assuaging his fears beforehand, yet I imagine him taking full, unwavering pleasure in the act, once the process has begun.
Daniel would place me gently on the table, as though I may break, despite such a notion’s near comedic incongruity with the events that would follow. I imagine him removing my glasses and carefully setting them aside. I would look up, noticing the fear in his eyes, watching it fade once he saw the look of blissful determination in mine. He would then retrieve a scalpel, using it to make a deep incision across my neck, bisecting both carotid arteries, as well as my larynx. I imagine him watching as I sputter and gasp, trying pathetically to breathe, despite the obvious mechanical hindrance. In my mind, despite his tenderness, he would find my significant agony amusing, yet sexually arousing.
Daniel would then utilize a larger blade, severing my head below the brain stem just before the blood loss rendered me incoherent. His face in my spotty vision would soon fade to black.
Following my death, Daniel would prepare my head and body for reanimation. He would need to cauterize the severed veins and arteries, then insert an IV line into both segments, for the purpose of returning the previously drained blood to them. Once everything is in place, he would dutifully calculate the appropriate dose and inject me with the reagent.
Knowing Daniel, he’d be holding his breath, sweat on his brow, staring at that damn stopwatch of his, until I finally came to. He’d let out a sigh of relief as I took my first gasp of air, post-reanimation.
My experience with using diluted doses of reagent in its crude, current form has taught me that, in addition to dulling sensations of hunger and exhaustion, it has a marked effect on my libido. Therefore, it is not unrealistic of me to imagine that I would be at full arousal within minutes, if not faster. I’d also like to imagine that Daniel would be in a similar state, but I have no prior data to substantiate it.
Above all, there is one thought within the larger narrative that finds itself lodged in my brain more frequently than I care to admit on paper: Daniel injecting my body with a paralytic agent, preventing me from using it to resist him in any meaningful way — not to say I would without it. After that, the possibilities are quite numerous, the thought of many of them I shamefully find stimulating in one way or another.
One of my favored directions in which to take the narrative is one in which Daniel avails himself of my severed head. More specifically, of my mouth. I picture him nearly unable to contain himself; quickly freeing himself from his pants, then carefully lifting my head from the table. I would tease him, perhaps put up a verbal facade of disdain, but we would both be well aware of the nature of my charade. This is what plagues me the most. The issue is that I simply cannot stop thinking of sweet, ethical Daniel giving into temptation and inserting himself into my mouth. I would even be courteous enough to open it for him.
Perhaps that is much of why these thoughts come to me in the first place? I may have a bit of a desire to corrupt him, perhaps. In this fantasy, I’m the one cut into pieces, but if that’s what it takes to see Dr. Cain — golden boy of the E.R. — hunched over an autopsy table, desperately rutting into the mouth of a severed human head, so it shall be.
I imagine I would ensure it was fully captured on film, as well. Both to give us the opportunity to use the footage as future masturbatory material (as it would only be safe to attempt such a thing once), and to give me the satisfaction of knowing his depravity — his moment of weakness — was documented. A real ‘Kodak moment’, as Daniel might say.
In addition, what I would like to witness the most could only be viewed from a third person perspective. In theory, if his member were large enough and he were to go all the way in, perhaps the tip would be visible, poking through the bottom of my severed esophagus. I’d imagine he’d like it — he could thrust as hard as he wanted, and I would be unable to protest. I’d certainly gag, yet he would have no need to worry about the potentiality that I could vomit on him. For obvious reasons.
I am aware of how depraved it may be, however, I meet a challenge when attempting to imagine anything that may turn me on more. Simply writing about it is enough to cause a significant arousal response. I also often think about him either seated or lying down, attempting to copulate with my throat from the other end. The tip of it would most certainly reach my mouth, which I find quite amusing. Entering from the bottom, I would be forced to taste a combination of reagent, stomach acid, bile, and blood. In addition to, hopefully, Daniel’s semen. It would burn horridly, in conjunction with the agony of my prior beheading. His course pubic hair rubbing against the cross section of my neck would make it significantly worse.
Such things shouldn’t cause me to feel such a way, and yet I cannot help it. Perhaps I take pleasure in my own suffering. Perhaps it is the idea of a version of Daniel who takes such pleasure in my suffering. Or who simply can’t bring himself to care about how much it hurts me, because it gets him off.
Once he finishes, I’d hope he would be courteous enough to continue the activities in one way or another. I’d imagine he would — he would be well aware that this would have to be a one-time occurrence, for the sake of my health. He’d have to. He’d be a fool to let the opportunity go to waste, especially one with so many possibilities.
While waiting for his refractory period to end, he could always place my head upright, skewered atop my headless, paralyzed body, just as I was on his. Imagining him sitting in his lab chair, his hands and groin covered in blood, taking pleasure in watching me struggle to breathe around my own member… It truly is a thing of wretchedness; what these musings do to me. I’m ashamed to admit that I, as of a few minutes ago, am writing this entry one-handed.
Revision: Take the previous sentence as a testimony of what these damn thoughts do to me. It is obvious that I have been writing the entire entry, and everything I’ve written in the past two decades, one-handed — I have never once heard of anyone over the age of five holding a pen with two hands. Despite the nonsensical nature of my statement, the insinuation stands.
Approximately four minutes have elapsed, and it seems that depravity has won. It, as is evident by the time passed, did not take much effort on my part to bring myself to climax. I can thank the fantasies for that. Now, I am left only with the knowledge that I got to that point thinking about Daniel sodomizing my headless body, with no preparation and only a bit of blood and saliva to lubricate. That is…certainly something.
I should desire to lift myself out of the grave I am currently digging myself by entertaining these fantasies. Should. Instead, all I want is to drag Daniel into the metaphorical casket with me. I have already pushed him so far, with the experiments, stealing from the hospital, all those body parts. Yet, I still have to feign cordiality while he introduces me to his Floozy Of The Week, over and over again.
Perhaps, by the time the reagent is perfected, he may change. If he does not, I can only fall back on how he seems to do what I ask, for my sake, if I plead with him enough. His caring and kind nature is what captured me, yet all I want is to scrape enough of it away for him to be ruthless. If only for me and our experiments. Just that would be enough.
Speak of the devil! The occupier of my heinous thoughts is calling my name from downstairs. I was not planning to face him so soon, but alas, I have no choice. Perhaps I will continue this exercise in recounting my thoughts of this nature. Then, of course, I will tear out and burn the pages.
“DAAAAN! DANNYYYYY! DID YOU FIND THOSE EXPERIMENT LOGS YET? I’D LIKE TO IMAGINE YOU’RE LITERATE ENOUGH TO READ THE COVERS!”
Dan looked up from the small notebook, heart racing. Herbert, professional thorn in his side and apparent keeper of limitless sick fantasies was calling from downstairs. Again. Plus, he was being condescending about it! Obviously Dan could read. Despite, of course, him debating whether or not he should wish he couldn’t.
He stared at the wall in front of him, trying to mentally process what in heaven and hell he had just read. Perhaps, he should have just said “oh, this is personal!” and put it back down. It would’ve been the polite thing to do, and yet he continued to snoop. It was unlike him. It was something Herbert would do.
Isn’t that what Herbert said in the journal, that he wanted to corrupt him? Yeah, he did.
Dan’s breath caught in his throat.
“DANIEL CAIN!”
Dan dropped the notebook, continuing to stare blankly ahead. Despite Herbert’s urgency, he couldn’t yet bring himself to respond. He knew he’d respond eventually, once he could get his bearings.
It’s certainly a lot, physiologically; feeling dizzy and numb and horridly nauseous…then looking down, only to see an erection nearly hard enough to cut diamonds.
“DANNY, SWEETHEART, ARE YOU STILL ALIVE, OR SHALL I FETCH THE BONE SAW?”
Dan didn’t know if it was Herbert’s words or his voice that did it, but his cock visibly twitched in his pants, calling attention to a small wet spot soaking through the khaki fabric. His stomach sunk at the realization that he was far from purely disgusted. He’d soon be forced to face Herbert again, but he knew he’d be doing so as a different man than before.
But, hey, that’s exactly what Herbert wanted.